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The purest Malay art form is part psychotherapy and part dance-drama. IT was 6 o’clock. As the sun descended, it stained the sky with deep shades of orange and yellow. Only a few rays of light cut through the dark forest, reaching the backyard of the Kelantan-styled wooden house located at the edge of Kampung Gong Lapang, in Kuala Besut. Che Siti Dollah, affectionately known as Mek Ti, was sitting crossed-legged at the front veranda, overseeing the final preparations at the open-air panggung — a makeshift theatre-in-the-round. Only two men remained. All that was left to be done now was to mark the border by tying two lines of raffia rope horizontally, connecting the four pillars. Lastly, they decorated the borders with flowers and coconut palm fronds. The panggung was now ready for the Mak Yong ritual performance that was about to take place. Mek Ti was silent and calm, trusting the two men experienced in their craft. Behind her, a group of women dancers in black kebaya gathered in the cramped living room to do their makeup. Mek Ti is one of the few remaining veteran Mak Yong actresses in Kelantan and its border areas. Now in her 80s, with deteriorating vision and fragile knees, she is only able to sit in the panggung and do what she describes as menjawab nyanyian (answering the song). Mek Ti is the main custodian of Mak Yong in her community. She leads the Cahaya Matahari troupe, a Mak Yong group founded by the late Che Ning, a legendary Mak Yong prima donna in Kelantan. Ensuring the continuity of the Mak Yong tradition is Mek Ti’s niece and Che Ning’s granddaughter, Rohana Abdul Kadir, who plays the principal role, alongside her sisters, her father Pak Su Kadir and other seasoned Mak Yong performers. For Mek Ti, making conversation with the guests and exchanging banter with the musicians was not only to break the silence. It distracted her from thinking about the unanticipated news she had received a week earlier. Her original plan to hold the event at her own place near Kuala Besut had been rejected by the village headman, forcing the troupe to find refuge in another village. This time, the ritual performance had to be done discreetly at her relative’s house, far below the radar of the authorities. The village headman’s refusal to allow a Mak Yong performance came in the wake of the Terengganu state government’s announcement of new guidelines on culture and entertainment, guidelines that include strict prohibitions on women performers and gender segregation even for the audience. Having witnessed nearly three decades of censorship of the traditional arts in Kelantan, just over the state border, the news felt like a ticking time bomb to Mek Ti and the whole Mak Yong community. 'Easier to practice Mak Yong under Umno' In February 2020, I joined Pusaka, a cultural organisation led by journalist and culturalist, Eddin Khoo, to Kuala Besut to experience a Mak Yong ritual performance in its community setting and to grapple with the cultural politics that surrounds it. Pusaka had organised a three-day Mak Yong cultural immersion for selected writers, researchers, filmmakers, and theatre practitioners, with the support of Malaysian Reform Initiative (Mari), the US Embassy, and USAID. Like other border districts of Kelantan, Kuala Besut is regarded as part of the cradle of Kelantanese Malay heritage. Although it falls under the administration of Terengganu, Kuala Besut shares many commonalities with Kelantan culturally, in particular the food, dialect, and artistic traditions. Being politically under Terengganu — a stronghold state of the dominant Malay political party, United Malays National Organisation (Umno) — had been an advantage to traditional performers like Mek Ti. Kuala Besut sat somewhat removed from the Pan-Malaysian Islamic Party (PAS) power centre in Kelantan, and people enjoyed freedoms deemed incongruent with PAS’s Islamic way of life. This relative liberty ended in May 2018, when Terengganu fell under PAS’ control in Malaysia’s historic 14th General Election. PAS’ Islamic ideological impositions and cultural restrictions in Kelantan have now spilled beyond Kelantan’s political border. “It was easier to practice Mak Yong under Umno," Mek Ti told me. I sat with Mek Ti in the panggung while we waited for Pak Su Agel, a master gendang player and one of the most accomplished musicians in Kelantan, to set up his ensemble. “They appreciated Mak Yong and didn’t restrict us here. But now… things have changed," she conveyed. Today, Mek Ti and the Mak Yong Cahaya Matahari group must deal with an ever-growing Islamic influence from both Kelantan and Terengganu. Mak Yong is a traditional Malay dance-drama and healing ritual primarily found in Kelantan as well as the Pattani region of southern Thailand. Mak Yong is believed to have existed as a ritual art for centuries and, for a period until the 1920s, enjoyed the royal patronage of the Kelantan Sultanate. After Independence, into the 1970s and 80s, itinerant Mak Yong troupes came to prominence, led by ‘prima donnas’ like Che Ning. However, the changing political winds set their ideological weapons against traditional culture. Soon after their rise to political power in Kelantan in 1990, PAS proscribed Mak Yong and several other traditional art forms, citing ‘animist and Hindu-Buddhist roots which pre-date Islam’ and painting them as ‘immoral’ activities that contain elements of shirk (polytheism) and khurafat (superstition). Despite the damaging proscription by PAS, Mak Yong was recognised by Unesco in 2005 as a ‘Masterpiece of Intangible and Oral Heritage of Humanity’. A masterpiece banned in its place of origins. A Mak Yong performance usually begins by paying respect to the "original teacher" (guru asal) with an offering. This ceremony is known as the buka panggung (consecration of the stage). This is followed by a delicate opening dance performed by a group of eight to 10 women called menghadap rebab (salutations to the rebab). The performance continues with the enactment of stories derived mainly from Kelantan-Pattani mythology, with refined and stylised dialogue. Another important element in Mak Yong is the music ensemble, featuring instruments such as rebab (three-stringed spiked fiddle), gendang (double-headed drum), a pair of gongs, serunai (Malay oboe), geduk drums and kesi (small cymbals). More than just a dance-drama, Mak Yong as practiced by Mek Ti is a form of psychotherapy — a healing ritual that involves communication with spirits, ancestors and the "original teacher" but most of all the release of suppressed angin (inner winds) of the individual psyche. “People easily condemn Mak Yong as sinful when they don’t understand its essence and origin,” said Mek Ti. She holds that there is no contradiction between being a devout Muslim and practising Mak Yong. Mak Yong is a marker of the community’s roots and history, reminding them of their deep heritage and identity. Mek Ti sees the women centred Mak Yong tradition as a legacy left by Che Siti Wan Kembang, the legendary queen of Kelantan who reigned in the 16th century, and an emblem of the powerful position of women in Kelantan. Mak Yong immortalises traces of love and desire, war and truce, the alliances and enmity of kings, the lives of archetypal characters of past kingdoms. It also serves as a moral compass and provides a sense of self for Kelantanese like Mek Ti. Cultural and religious politics in Kelantan is never as serene as the everyday life in the village. It turns some of us into fanatics, dividing people into friends and enemies or believers and kafir (infidels). As in other Malay states, politics in Kelantan is shaped by contestations between local lords, conflicts over power and influence disguised by religious and ethnic rhetoric. To gain support that would later translate into votes, PAS positioned itself at the opposite extreme from the moderate Umno, taking on a more conservative, puritan self-image while claiming to propagate the truest version of Islam. I spent three days in the village, immersing myself in the festivity and intensity of the mak yong performance, experiencing the wonder of the Kelantanese-Malay heritage. Yet, between the silences of the last notes of the ensemble, lies the bewildering struggle of Kelantanese cultural practitioners to keep their traditions alive amid the growing Islamic puritanism. For Mek Ti, it is better to practice the Mak Yong tradition ‘underground’ rather than let it deteriorate under PAS leadership. How does Mak Yong fare underground? Look out for Part 2 here. *This essay first appeared in The Vibes, 07 November 2020.

Kita mengenal Sejarah sebagai sebatang tubuh yang direbut-rebut dan sering dipindah milik. Ada satu pertanyaan yang sedari kecil belum saya temukan jawapan, atau paling tidak, cebisan-cebisan petanda: siapa leluhur saya? Kenapa pertanyaan ini selalu hadir, saya kurang pasti. Sekilas, ianya tidak lebih daripada sekadar rasa ingin tahu. Benar, sekadar ingin tahu. Mungkin kerana itu saya hanya mengenal, paling jauh, arwah datuk daripada kedua-dua belah ayah dan ibu. Seorangnya bengis dan suka merantau, dan seorang lagi guru silat yang pendiam dan tidak bekerja tetap. Kerja menjejak asal-usul diri sendiri selalunya sulit. Kerana itu saya tidak kerap menoleh ke belakang dan mencari. Ayah sendiri jarang bercerita. Ibu pula sebaliknya suka bertitih, namun malang, kurang petah dalam mengungkap. Sesekali, ketika di kampung, saya beralih ke gambar untuk memerhatikan denai-denai yang pernah dilalui oleh keluarga. Tapi, gambar juga segan bercerita. Di situ, gerbang salasilah hanya menguak di ambang pertemuan ayah dan ibu. Kepingan gambar ayah yang masih berseragam hijau di Sarawak, dan gambar ibu dengan skirt putih jururawat yang sedang mengelamun di pintu sebuah klinik di Kota Bharu, berselang-seli antara satu sama lain. Selebihnya, gambar-gambar orang berkenduri-kendara, dan gambar diri sendiri ketika kecil yang tekun meniru gerak-geri orang lain. Barangkali tidak ada yang boleh dijual daripada kisah Deris dan Hassan — tok ayah dan tok ki yang tidak selalu saya santuni itu. Pada waktu muda, Deris sibuk membeli tanah di mana sahaja punggungnya berlabuh. Hassan pula asyik mengukir hulu dan sarung golok di bangsal belakang rumah. Tidak ada pentingnya juga dengan apa yang sedang dibicarakan oleh ayah dan ibu dalam gambar mereka sebingkai buat pertama kali. Mungkin sekolah yang mendorong saya melihat begitu. Sejarah, kenangan, ingatan, dan kejadian masa lalu yang saya kutip di bilik darjah adalah deretan cerita yang menguatkan kesetiaan saya kepada negara. Yang terjadi di Stadium Merdeka pada tanggal 31 Ogos 1957 adalah Tunku Abdul Rahman melaungkan di hadapan ribuan rakyat bahawa negara sudah bebas. Di helaian buku teks, para perwira masa lalu yang diajar untuk dikenang adalah mereka yang sudah menumpahkan bakti kepada negara. Negara perlahan-lahan menculik masa lalu saya. Ingatan dan kenangan yang dihidangkan dalam mata pelajaran sejarah adalah segala yang telah membentuk saya sebagai sebuah masyarakat; suatu yang diingati secara bersama. Di sini, sejarah adalah suatu cerita panjang tentang sosok dan peristiwa yang sudah dipilih negara. Deris dan Hassan, jelas, tiada dalam garis panjang ini. Dalam buku teks, sejarah menjadi rasmi, dan saya semakin jauh dari sejarah sendiri. Saya tahu, sewaktu membesar di kampung, saudara-mara sering berdatangan ke rumah, dan mereka fasih berbahasa Siam. Namun, tidak ada cerita tentang bagaimana saya boleh bertaut dengan orang-orang yang bertebaran di kawasan Sungai Golok dan Patani itu. Cerita Deris mungkin tenggelam dalam kisah kerumunan manusia yang dari generasi ke generasi menyeberangi sungai yang membelah dua negara. Hujungnya, cerita dan peristiwa masa lalu yang tidak tertulis merapat ke pinggir, atau sekadar menjadi pilihan-pilihan yang masih diragui. Di sini, kita mengenal Sejarah sebagai sebatang tubuh yang direbut-rebut dan sering dipindah milik. Sudah tentu ada bau kuasa dalam pandangan terhadap sejarah yang sedemikian. Maka, tidak hairan kalau banyak negara bangsa terus-menerus melawat sejarah, membawa masuk dan mencungkil keluar cerita dan peristiwa masa lalu semahunya. Sejarah, di mata penguasa, berubah menjadi alat untuk membelenggu. Namun, masa lalu bukan barang lepas yang sekadar ditinggalkan. Dengan terang atau samar, sejarah dan cebis-cebis kenangan sentiasa tercangkuk dan mengekori hari ini. Malah, kita menanggapi sejarah bak mendakap halaman sendiri: walau sejauh mana kita terdampar, kita kembali ke ribanya setelah dipaksa tubuh. Barangkali itu yang terjadi. Rasa ingin tahu saya adalah salah satu pendorong. Ada panggilan bawah sedar yang turut minta dijawab. Hidup jauh dari tempat saya bermula, kerja mencari salasilah sendiri menjadi semakin payah. Malah, hari ini di kota, orang mungkin tidak lagi bertitih dan menelusuri susur-galur sesering yang dilakukan orang waktu dahulu di kampung. Kita dituntut untuk terus bergerak ke depan, dan jarang berhenti untuk menoleh ke belakang. Namun, ada ironinya juga hidup di kota yang tidak pernah tidur. Kita tetap sahaja terasing dan bersendiri. Di persimpangan antara kemajuan dan keterasingan ini pertanyaan dari mana datangnya diri sendiri selalu hadir. Seperti sirih pulang ke gagang, menjejak salasilah adalah kepulangan ke salur di dalam tubuh tempat darah dan semangat mengalir. Kita menemui suatu bentuk sejarah yang bergerak melampaui kategori-kategori identiti kumpulan dan politik. Biarpun tidak tertulis dan tanpa kuasa politik, ia hadir walaupun tidak disedari. Menelusuri salasilah dan mengangkat sejarah-sejarah ‘pinggiran’ tidak semestinya bermakna melawan sejarah dominan yang mapan, tetapi menawarkan sisi-sisi lain sejarah. Kita juga tahu bahawa sejarah di sini tidak selama-lamanya bermatlamat menguasai. Dalam perjalanan pulang ke masa lalu dan mengenal asal-usul, kita kemudian yakin bahawa sejarah juga menghidupi. Memang tidak ada yang boleh dijual daripada tok ayah dan tok ki atau daripada kepingan gambar yang terselit di balik buku album di kampung. Mereka adalah pintu masuk ke sebuah tanah yang jarang diziarahi. Deris meninggal di halaman sendiri setelah penat merantau. Hassan sempat meninggalkan sebilah dua keris dan golok buat panduan. Namun, segala kisah dan denai yang pernah mereka lalui membentuk dan merintis laluan buat saya hari ini.

People would assume that we are all puritans, preferring Islamic teachings over tradition and cultural heritage, when in fact, these can easily go hand in hand. Our lives revolve around locating ourselves within the unfamiliar, and coming to terms with all the differences that we chance upon in our surroundings. There are seemingly only two options for us to choose from: to throw ourselves into the herd and become one with the others; or to step out, acknowledge and embrace the dissimilarities. As a young boy living in 1990s Labok, a small Malay village – said to be named after an Orang Asli’s Tok Batin – just outside of Machang, Kelantan, my life had always been a steady push and pull between the two. The game was either to conform to the state-defined standard – to be a devout, Parti Islam Se-Malaysia (PAS)-supporting Kelantanese, or to deviate from it. Defiance usually comes with a hefty price tag. Growing up in the Malay-majority state, ruled by a conservative Islamic political party for more than 20 years, one does not expect much change to happen. Thus, many young Kelantanese travel, looking for liberty, opportunities and promise. Some would later wish to go home, while the rest choose to continue building their lives elsewhere. But I lived with my parents, and was stuck in a place that I struggled to call home. Despite having lived in Labok for more than two decades, it remained just another temporary place for my parents, who served the government. Home, for a young boy like me, was a place where I could find some sort of neutrality, and where I could embrace the kampung spirit in me. Labok, unfortunately, was not that kind of place. For that matter, I would say Kuchelong, a farmer-majority village where my grandmother lived, was the home and place that shaped me into who I am today. My companions were the typical elements of kampung life: muddy rivers, colourful fighting fish, the jungle, the birds that served as an alarm clock, and certainly the paddy fields. There, during the harvesting season, I would join the village folk in flying kites. But these are not the stories we usually hear about Kelantan. The mass media are particularly more interested in feeding audiences stories of the ruling government and the political parties. Many social-scientific writing, on the other hand, describe Kelantan and its people as peasants, planting paddy, vegetables and occasionally tobacco for trade or daily consumption. In the nineteenth century, Kelantan attracted students from other places in the archipelago to study religion in its many religious schools, or sekolah pondok; hence, like Aceh, Kelantan was also called Serambi Makkah, or Annex of Mecca. However, Munshi Abdullah, a nineteenth-century Malay writer, in his Kisah Pelayaran Abdullah ke Kelantan (An Account of His Trip for the Government to Kelantan), criticised the backwardness of the Malays and their negative attitude in rejecting progress – an observation that some Kelantanese would refute. And for that, I have to carry the baggage of the Kelantanese stereotype. People would assume that we are all puritans, preferring Islamic teachings over tradition and cultural heritage, when in fact, these can easily go hand in hand. The Consequence of Politics My excess energy as a child was often spent practicing with a dikir barat troupe; the stories and melody of the dikir barat became my lullabies at night. When I was lucky enough, I would get to watch wayang kulit during the election period – a method championed by Umno to attract the Malay crowd. These joys, however, were often clouded by recurring questions I asked myself: Was I looking for happiness in the wrong places?. Kelantan in the 1990s underwent a period of intense Arabisation, replete with the wearing of the robes and fishnet-patterned keffiyeh or skullcap, and code-mixing the local language with Arabic. While the batik lepas was popular among folks, some donned the white Arabic jubbah – a statement to differentiate themselves from others. Naturally, the state government supported these segments of the population as it was seeking to emphasise its credential of being an Islamic party. The contest was heated up at the national level between the two versions of Islam – the one propagated by Umno, and the one propagated by PAS. Soon after winning the 1990 state election, PAS decreed a dress code for Muslims and non-Muslims, while traditional games and cultural performances deemed indecent from the Islamic point of view were banned. Religion ties people together, but it can also divide. The PAS-Umno political rivalry was so intense that people held prayers in different mosques separated according to the parties. It even changed the look of agriculture in Kelantan. Tobacco used to be one of the state’s main economic contributors until former chief minister and respected ulama, the late Nik Abdul Aziz Nik Mat, declared tobacco consumption to be un-Islamic; he then called all tobacco growers to shift to planting kenaf, which is cultivated for its fibre. Culture Shift Growing up with a strong sense of cultural heritage, at the same time witnessing its demise, affected me as a child. Dikir barat, main puteri, mak yong and wayang kulit were part of the village folks’ everyday lives; but new rules and restrictions pushed many cultural performances to border towns such as Tumpat and Pasir Mas. Some Kelantanese chose Besut in Terengganu to seek shelter under BN, which offerred more freedom, while the younger generation moved to big cities like KL and Johor, and tried to preserve their cultural heritage there. Many cultural performances have erased the influence of Hinduism, making them more tourists-friendly without the jampi. But the Islam that I grew up with was nothing like that. The Islam that I grew up to believe in was a syncretic one, combining elements of different beliefs while blending the practices of various schools of thoughts. It complements rather than replaces local traditions. This was the belief that helped me to make sense of life, and was not merely a tool of control. It taught me not to judge, but to understand. And for that, I wish the narrative would revert to that found in the good old kampung days, when children got excited over the sounds of the lagu bertabuh – and played in the river, no matter how muddy it got. *This article was first published in Penang Monthly, October 2019.

Keluh-kesah dan penentangan oleh ramai penggiat seni dan budaya di Kelantan bertitik tolak dari salah faham parti Islam itu dalam mentafsirkan Mak Yong. Saya berkesempatan untuk berembun selama dua malam di kampung Gong Lapang yang letaknya di Kuala Besut, Terengganu pada hujung Februari 2020 lalu. Berembun demi menonton Mek Ti, Rohana, Pak Su Kadir, Pak Su Agel, dan belasan pemuda dan pemudi dari kumpulan Mak Yong Cahaya Matahari. Kumpulan yang ditubuhkan oleh primadona Che Ning ini tidak lekang daripada bergendang dan meliuk tubuh ikut irama. Biarpun panggung tempat mereka beraksi tidak sebesar Istana Budaya, namun, bunyi gesekan rebab, tiupan serunai, dan ketukan gendang ibu dan anak mampu menjadikan angin, awan, dan dedahan pokok hutan di sekeliling tidak senang duduk. Di kepala panggung yang sekadar berpagarkan anyaman daun kelapa, terhidang sepinggan pulut kuning, telur, dan ayam panggang. Kata mereka, hidangan yang sudah tentunya menggiurkan ini adalah untuk santapan nenek moyang. Tidak ada anak yang dibenarkan mencicip, apatah lagi melahapnya. Hanya dibenarkan menelan air liur sahaja. Di hujung kampung jauh dari pekan kecil Kuala Besut, di hadapan lebih dua puluh tetamu dari Kuala Lumpur yang dibawa oleh pertubuhan kebudayaan PUSAKA, terdapat persembahan Mak Yong. Pada hening malam itu, ada jiwa yang sakit perlu diubati, ada semangat yang lemah minta untuk disembuhkan. Malam dibelah dengan persembahan tersebut. Namun, panggung kecil di tepi sawah padi dan di celah-celah pokok getah di ceruk kampung Gong Lapang bukanlah panggung yang sudah lama terbina. Ini hanya panggung sementara tatkala permohonan mereka untuk mementaskan Mak Yong di tempat biasa buat pertama kalinya telah ditolak oleh Tok Penghulu. Semenjak Parti Islam Se-Malaysia (PAS) mengambil alih pentadbiran Terengganu pada tahun 2018, maka negeri itu mula mengikuti jejak langkah Kelantan dengan memperkenalkan garis panduan hiburan, kebudayaan dan pelancongan. Kini, segala kegiatan nyaring nyanyi dan liuk tari di negeri itu mestilah berlandaskan syariah. Manakala Kuala Besut pula merupakan salah satu tempat berlindungnya pelbagai kebudayaan tradisional Melayu sesudah terkena rembesan Islamisasi PAS di Kelantan. Kuala Besut, ibaratnya sebuah ranah budaya pelarian. Buat kesekian kalinya Mek Ti dan kumpulan Mak Yong yang diwarisinya, dihambat di atas tanah sendiri. Siapa Lebih Islam? Peristiwa yang berlaku kepada Mekti dan kumpulan Mak Yong Cahaya Matahari ini bukan hal yang baru. Untuk memahaminya, kita perlu menelusuri denai-denai sejarah politik Kelantan, setidak-tidaknya bermula dari tahun 1990, ketika PAS kembali merampas negeri itu dari UMNO. Sudah nasib, Mek Ti dan kumpulan Mak Yong Cahaya Matahari adalah pelanduk yang tersepit di antara dua gajah politik yang berebut untuk membuktikan siapa yang lebih Islam di Kelantan. Hakikatnya, titik mula pertempuran kuasa antara dua gajah politik di Kelantan boleh dikatakan bermula sejak tahun 1955 lagi. Dalam pilihanraya pertama yang dilangsungkan pada tahun tersebut, UMNO meraih kemenangan besar dengan menguasai seluruh kerusi di Kelantan. Di bawah pentadbiran UMNO, Kelantan dibawa mengikuti garis ideologi kebangsaan parti itu. UMNO bersumpah untuk meletakkan kepentingan Melayu sebagai matlamat utama perjuangannya dan Islam hanya sekadar berada di kerusi belakang. Perkembangan ini sudah tentunya tidak disenangi oleh PAS. Namun, kedudukan UMNO di Kelantan pada waktu itu tidaklah begitu selesa. Negeri yang majoriti penduduknya adalah Melayu beragama Islam ini turut mengintai PAS sebagai parti politik alternatif kepada UMNO. Malah, ketika Burhanuddin Al-Helmy mengambil alih kerusi presiden PAS dan memandu parti itu ke arah jalan sosialis kebangsaan dengan secubit perisa Islam, sokongan terhadap PAS semakin meningkat. Pada pilihanraya umum tahun 1959, parti Islam itu buat pertama kalinya berjaya merampas Kelantan dan Terengganu. Walau bagaimanapun, kesan konflik kepimpinan tertinggi PAS di Kelantan yang berlaku di antara Asri Muda yang merupakan penyandang kerusi presiden dan Muhammad Nasir berlarutan sehingga tujuh belas tahun membawa arus baharu. Pada tahun 1977, PAS kemudiannya tewas di Kelantan. Politik gohek-gostan (tolak-tarik) Kelantan antara penjuru Islam dan penjuru Melayu ini tiba ke puncaknya apabila PAS mula diresapi oleh golongan ulama bermula pada tahun 1982. Perjuangannya adalah untuk menegakkan sebuah negara Islam. Dengan pengaruh kuat Revolusi Iran pada ketika itu, kelompok ini secara terang-terangan menolak nasionalisme gaya UMNO yang kononnya bertentangan dengan semangat ummah dalam Islam. Lantas, perbezaan UMNO dan PAS kini menjadi semakin ketara sehingga perpecahan dalam kalangan masyarakat Melayu khususnya di negeri Kelantan tidak dapat dielakkan. Kekuatan wajah Islam ini juga telah berjaya mengembalikan Kelantan ke tangan PAS. Bagi menegaskan lagi perbezaan dengan lawan politiknya, dua tahun selepas berjaya merampas kembali Kelantan pada tahun 1990, PAS seraya memulakan gerak kerja penyucian negeri itu dengan lebih giat. Tindakan paling mudah bagi parti itu untuk menyerlahkan lagi wajah Islamnya adalah dengan mencampuri hal ehwal kehidupan harian rakyat yang diperintahnya. Pada tahun 1992, kerajaan negeri Kelantan pimpinan Nik Abdul Aziz Nik Mat melakukan penstrukturan semula kegiatan kesenian, kebudayaan dan hiburan di negeri itu. Mak Yong, seperti dijangka, akhirnya menerima tempias daripada penstrukturan tersebut. Pemadaman Susur Galur dan Lari Dari Kelantan Sebenarnya, keluh-kesah dan penentangan oleh ramai penggiat seni dan budaya di Kelantan bertitik tolak dari salah faham parti Islam itu dalam mentafsirkan Mak Yong. Bahkan, ditambah lagi dengan anggapan bahawa pelbagai kesenian lain adalah tidak lebih daripada sekadar hiburan semata-mata. Pandangan sempit sebegini yang akhirnya menyebabkan persembahan tradisional lain seperti wayang kulit (yang dianggap memiliki pengaruh agama Hindu) diharamkan di Kelantan. Pada tahun 1998, kerajaan Kelantan meluluskan Enakmen Kawalan Hiburan dan Tempat-Tempat Hiburan yang sekali gus mengharamkan kegiatan persembahan kesenian lain seperti mak yong, menora, dan main Puteri. Walaupun larangan ini telah ditarik balik pada bulan September 2019, rundingan itu tentunya memiliki harga tersendiri. Seniman Mak Yong kini perlu mematuhi garis panduan seperti pengasingan antara lelaki dan perempuan serta mewajibkan para penari Mak Yong untuk menutup bahagian tubuh yang dianggap sebagai aurat. Garis panduan yang diperkenalkan ini juga turut menghalang penglibatan perempuan dalam apa sahaja bentuk persembahan. Dengan hanya menggunakan kod agung halal dan haram, PAS melakukan penyucian secara menyeluruh ke atas segala hal yang dirasakannya sebagai tidak Islamik. Kesannya adalah berlakunya pemadaman terhadap pelbagai bentuk kebudayaan Melayu Kelantan pra-Islam yang sebelumnya sudah lama tersulam dalam masyarakat negeri itu. Tidak hanya memadamkan segala susur-galur masyarakat, sekatan terhadap kegiatan kebudayaan ini juga dikatakan menjadi alasan perpindahan ramai penduduk Kelantan ke bandar-bandar besar seperti Kuala Lumpur. Ibukota merupakan satu lagi Kuala Besut untuk mereka membentuk komuniti baharu seterusnya mengekalkan identiti akibat segala kekayaan seni dan budaya yang terhalang di Kelantan. Di Kuala Lumpur, anak-anak muda misalnya menubuhkan kumpulan-kumpulan dikir barat sendiri sebagai usaha untuk mengekalkan identiti dan memperkukuhkan rasa hidup bermasyarakat. Begitu juga dengan persembahan Mak Yong. Namun, sudah tentunya berlaku keciciran dalam proses perpindahan kegiatan dan pemindahan budaya ini sehingga bentuk kesenian Mak Yong di luar Kelantan tidak lagi dikatakan sebagai asli. Di ibukota, Mak Yong hanya menjadi sekadar seni persembahan untuk tujuan komersial dan dipersembahkan di universiti dan acara-acara kesenian dan kebudayaan. Ia juga tidak lagi menjadi sebuah kesenian bawahan yang dianjurkan oleh masyarakat sendiri. Bagi para penggiat seni dan kebudayaan tradisional Kelantan, tidak ada cara lain untuk mengekalkan keaslian segala bentuk persembahan turun-temurun ini selain daripada terus kekal di tanah asalnya dan berhadapan dengan tekanan pemerintah. Untuk kekal seasli mungkin, sesuatu budaya perlu kembali ke rahimnya, dan tidak lagi terpencar-pencar. Namun, apabila mereka sendiri perlu meratapi kehilangan seorang demi seorang penggiat tanpa ada pengganti, ini pastinya hal yang tidak mudah. Namun, hal yang tidak mudah seringkali juga menjadikan hal tersebut lebih bermakna. Tidak ada yang lebih berharga, selain makna yang terkandung dalam sesuatu kebudayaan tersebut. Tanpa makna, budaya tiada. *Esei ini pertama kali diterbitkan di Naratif Malaysia, Ogos 2020.

But in the time of a global pandemic, when social distancing is required to flatten the cursed curve, what does the ritual of balik kampung now mean to us? A 300KM ride back home along the east-west coast highway connecting Penang to Kelantan usually involves three phone calls to be made: the first, an early morning call to confirm the day’s itinerary, followed by the second ring an hour later for a breaking-fast special delivery order for mamak fish curry, and the third, to check in on my current location. On the couch in front of the TV, my mum is sitting, phone in hand, anxiously waiting for her son to arrive back home. Hari Raya is just around the corner, and Muslims from all over Malaysia will soon begin their balik kampung journeys. I, too, will be spending six long hours in the car, driving into the mists of the Titiwangsa Range and braving the horrendous traffic to celebrate Hari Raya with family and friends and of course, to sample the festive dishes of nasi himpit, ketupat and tapai. But in the time of a global pandemic, when social distancing is required to flatten the cursed curve, what does the ritual of balik kampung now mean to us Muslims? Will Hari Raya be the same as in years before? I write this article midway through the extended MCO period; Penang has been at its quietest for a while now. At every road turning, one is greeted by the police or army personnel advising the public to not make any unnecessary short distance travel; and for the homesick Malaysians, to forget about the inter-state balik kampung journeys. To curb the spread of Covid-19, staying home is now mandatory. The ritual of balik kampung transcends ethnic and religious boundaries, and more importantly, it helps us to rediscover our bearings – after all, home is where the heart is. In Thailand the Thais would lop ban rau to meet their family during the Songkran Festival. A Filipino who is visiting or returning to the Philippines after years of living abroad is known as balikbayan. Every year in Indonesia, people overwhelm the train stations and airports, clogging the Trans-Java toll road for mudik lebaran. Regardless of the occasion, it is the act of returning or balik to something or somewhere that serves as the ritual’s core value. But times are changing, and so are our perceptions and responses toward our surroundings. Balik kampung in the time of crisis, therefore, requires an interpretation beyond the mere tradition of massive exodus during the festive season. Perhaps, the ritual is best described now as the return of human beings to nature; maybe we are in search of the many things lost in modern society, the ability to sit down and listen to each other in conversation is one particular example. For that reason, home may not necessarily be a physical place anymore, but a connection to those who remind us of home through different means. Whatever upheavals caused by the pandemic, we are now given the opportunity for self-reflection. For me at least, it has allowed for ruminations about the long drives back home that I had previously taken for granted. In modern capitalistic life, when attention becomes the resource that people quest for, listening has turned into an expensive trade. Instead of listening and attending to someone, many of us find ourselves in constant battle to be listened and paid attention to. Intimate conversations with friends and relatives have now become scarce. In encapsulating its spiritual meaning, balik kampung thus urges one to take a break from instantaneity, and instead embrace the slowness of life we were once familiar with. The English word “compound”, i.e. the immediate space outside the house that is enclosed by a fence, was in fact derived from our very own kampung. Except that in a kampung, one experiences the heightened sense of being in a spacious, balanced, sustainable and harmonious domain – characteristics that are hardly found in city life. Active social interactions are an intrinsic part of the kampung life. Stepping into a compound or kampung is synonymous to entering an ungated public arena in which conversations and other social activities take place. It is the fluidity of culture and the loose geographical border of the kampung that cultivate a sense of love, care and togetherness. Factoring in work and travel distance, driving back to the land of Che Siti Wan Kembang is hardly ever on my monthly schedule now. For more than a decade, I have called Penang my home, and it has offered me a host of opportunities while doubling as a laboratory for many experimentations, with countless successful and failed attempts. But then again, my relationship with Penang has always been reciprocal in nature. You enjoy everything it has to offer, but more often than not, it also drains you of many things. But Kelantan, the wonder of Malay heritage, would always open its doors for me to take a brief respite. It’s a pilgrimage back to the place where I grew up, with that all too familiar scent of petrichor, the rain quenching the paddy fields after long spells of dry weather. Some things remain as they were when I left Kampung Kuchelong 12 years ago. Young men still play sepak raga in front of my mum’s house, and the old folks occupy themselves with a game of dam haji at the hut, while waiting to break fast. In the kitchens, preparation for the berbuka dishes is underway, and always with extra portions to share with the neighbours. Three days before Raya, my seventy-year-old grandmother busies herself making the tapai and ketupat. I keep her company with my stories, or to just lend her my ear. These traditions have withstood the test of time, and will still be there the next time I visit. Beyond the bumper-to-bumper traffic and P. Ramlee’s famous Dendang Perantau, balik kampung is one’s journey towards understanding the Self, others and nature. But even though most of us this year are unable to leave behind the hustle and bustle of city life, to stow away the electronic gadgets, and to reconnect with those we have not seen in months or years, the spirit of pulang must nevertheless be preserved. We may miss the tradition of “bersalam” for forgiveness; but as the heart longs for those it can’t see, maybe Raya this time around will teach us to be more sincere in forgiving without the presence of others. *This article was first published in Penang Monthly, May 2020.

The difference between divination and the divine is a fine one. South-East Asia is a region with strong beliefs in the spirit world, blending modern rationality and traditional knowledge. There is great reciprocity between the seen and the unseen – from spells to win back an errant lover to communing with the spirits, raising crops, curing illnesses and cursing enemies, magic is everyday practice for some of its polyglot inhabitants. In Myanmar, during British colonial rule, magic practices were rather political: many Burmese used a “weizza”, a semi-immortal supernatural figure in Buddhism, to fight their oppressors. Most of these were however disbanded by the generals who seized power in 1962. The Malay world constitutes southern South-East Asia. It is an expansive region that territorially stretches over what we know as Austronesia and extends to Easter Island in the east and Madagascar in the west. The use of magic was rooted in Malay society long before the arrival of Islam. Even after Islam entered the Malay cultural and social sphere, existing mystical practices were not eradicated but were instead assimilated into religious practices. In turn, Islamic elements were sporadically incorporated into the Malay spirit world. Given the difficulty faced by scholars of Malay studies to provide a proper definition of the Malay realm, defining what Malay magic practices are poses quite a challenge. Dr Farouk Yahya, a Leverhulme Research Assistant for Islamic Art and Culture at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford University, sheds some light on the subject during a talk he gave last year, organised by George Town Fesitval and Areca Books in conjunction with the launch of The Arts of Southeast Asia from the SOAS Collections – a book edited by Farouk. What is “Magic”? "Magic’ is a complicated term to define, but it basically involves practices that attempt to alter something through supernatural means,” says Farouk. “The way I define Malay Malay magic in my research is that of magic practised by those who speak Malay as a first language. Therefore, other groups such as the Dayak and Madurese are excluded. However, these societies – together with the Malays and many other peoples in maritime South-East Asia – fall under the Austronesian ethnolinguistic group and thus share certain cultural similarities.” Numerous writings have been produced on what the Malays label as “magic”. Beginning with the expansion of British control in the late nineteenth century, many early visitors, including explorers, traders, administrators and missionaries, collected and reported on Malay rituals and beliefs as well as their language, literature, histories and folklores – which altogether form the field of Malay studies. “Malay studies can certainly include the study of magic and divination, including the texts and images that are contained in manuscripts on these topics,” says Farouk. “The manuscripts often contain numerous images of human beings, spirits and animals, as well as a variety of diagrams and charts. There is also evidence of intercultural connections between Malay society and the wider world. “Although concrete evidence is sparse and further research is needed, we may assume that the many merchants, religious clergy and settlers from India, the wider Islamic world, China and other parts of South- East Asia transmitted their knowledge to the local population through practical demonstrations, oral transmissions and books. At the same time, Malay merchants, pilgrims and students who travelled to other parts of the world would have brought back knowledge with them when they came home. “From my study of the manuscripts, I have found that the texts, images and practices contained within them can be traced to a variety of sources. There is an indigenous Malay tradition, which belongs to the wider corpus of South-East Asian beliefs and practices. In addition to this are techniques that originated from India, China and the Islamic world. However, an important point to make about these foreign influences is that they often underwent a process of localisation, in that they were reinterpreted and adapted to fit into Malay traditions and world views,” says Farouk. A small number of works by local scholars on Malay studies have led Western scholars, particularly orientalists, to dominate the look and understanding of magical practices in Malay society: “Firstly, they collected manuscripts and objects relating to these practices, and the resulting European collections have preserved some early material that would not have otherwise survived the hot and humid South-East Asian climate. “Secondly, they recorded their observations on magical and divinatory practices that were employed in the region. A particularly important book is W. W. Skeat’s Malay Magic, first published in 1900. Skeat’s book is a valuable resource for Malay practices on this topic, as he provides explanations of what techniques were used and how they worked. However, according to Farouk, some analyses by early Western colonial scholars must be used with caution: they often emphasised the pre-Islamic elements of Malay culture and referred to Islam as merely being a “thin veneer” in Malay society. “Scholars now believe that this was not the case. Islam has played a major role in shaping Malay culture for centuries, and indeed many magical and divinatory techniques involve the use of the Quran and pleas to God for help and guidance.” Islam, Science and Magic A new phase of Islamisation in Malaysia has come to dominate almost every part of Malay life: it marks a starting point where Islam, science and magical practices are brought into debate, and their compatibility to integrate with each other has become the main question. In Kelantan, old Malay traditions and practices such as wayang kulit, mak yong, main puteri, menora, bageh and etc. face extinction due to regulations to restrain superstitious elements imposed by the Islamic PAS state government. This resulted in almost all ritualistic and magical practices being turned into performing arts, with the exception of main puteri, a traditional healing method employing the use of music, which is still practiced with the presence of superstitious elements as an alternative to modern medicine. “During the twentieth century there was a marked shift towards modern medication. That said, when modern science is unable to provide answers to various problems, sometimes people may attribute the causes to supernatural forces and thus seek out supernatural remedies. However, there is a trend nowadays on the use of ‘Islamic healing’. This form of treatment employs predominantly Quranic verses and supplications (doa), and prohibits items typically associated with traditional Malay magic such as the use of benzoin and talismans,” says Farouk. In Islam, divination is no less popular. Tables and charts are consulted to determine a person’s fortune in life, and this practice is undertaken by magicians and shamans who orally transmit knowledge to their students. Faal Quran and Faal Nursi are two examples of divination using the Quran that show the integration between elements of Islam and Malay superstitious practices. With the eclectic elements found in most Malay magic practices, it would not be too much to conclude that Malay society has always been cosmopolitan, having been historically connected with various civilizations – contrary to the perception that the Malays were rather late in reaching modernity. Malay magical and divinatory traditions absorbed ideas from a wide variety of sources. The transmissions of knowledge would indeed imply a rather fluid and outward-looking environment that shaped the Malay world as we know it today. *This article was first published in Penang Monthly, January 2018.

After mixing tradition with the contemporary, Aida Redza brings her dances onto the streets. Dance and theatre fans know Aida Redza for her extraordinary and fearless performances. While grounded in a firm knowledge of the past, Aida’s work marks her out as one of the country’s most forward-thinking creatives and an iconic embodiment of female power. Perhaps her family roots offer some clues for why this should be so. Her father’s ancestors traced their lineage to Minang royal court warriors in Naning, then part of Negeri Sembilan. On the Medan-Mandailing matrilineal side of the family, Aida’s grandmother was an ustazah invited to lead the women’s community in Singapore and married a journalist who helped found the magazine Qalam before moving to KL. She also played the gambus and sang nasyid, a skill she passed on to Aida’s own mother. It’s no surprise, then, that Aida finds it second nature to traverse South-East Asia’s cultural boundaries. The apple never falls far from the tree. As a student at Penang’s Convent Green Lane Aida already nurtured an early interest in the arts and dance. Ironically, her mother forced her to take ballet from the age of 10 because she thought it would help make her unruly daughter more “feminine” and “refined”. “If I didn’t go for arts, I would have gone for rough sports; my dad was a rugby player,” she says. Anyone who has seen Aida’s performances cannot but be impressed by her physical boldness. “There is no boundary in terms of how I make use of my body,” she says. For some, climbing walls, risking yourself on a small boat in the middle of the sea and dancing in a muddy paddy field may seem bizarre undertakings. But Aida, who grew up in an environment where she was the only girl, learned very well how to blend with different sorts of nature. “When I was a kid, there was no difference between me and my brother. We were wild. We used to go out and do things together. I even learned martial arts at that time,” she recounts. All of this of course ran against the current of the time – when middle-class Malay girls were expected to be demure and domesticated. It was a form of “girl power” before its time. Voice of the People Aida is now an administrator for Penang Arts Link and also at the forefront of Ombak-Ombak ARTStudio, a collective of artistes and producers who nurture shifting cultural identities through contemporary performances. Her own artistic voice belongs to the people: she stands for the community, speaking on behalf of the marginalised, the underdog, the poor, and is the voice of the unheard. “It is just in my nature. I have always cared for people, animals and the environment. When I work, I just choose subjects that are ignored, at the margins,” she says. Creative work indeed has an important role to play because popular culture – with the performing arts at its centre – is capable of attracting people’s attention. In the hands of a skilful artiste, dance can be a powerful conduit for transmitting social commentaries. That’s its mysterious power. Dance is a wordless medium that relies on the movement of the body to express potent and complex ideas and emotions. Aida uses this expressive power – sometimes tender and poetic, sometimes physical and insistent – to present social narratives, especially to those who are not familiar with this kind of performance or who feel they don’t have the cultural capital to appreciate it. She decided to perform on the streets instead of in a theatre, using a language of movement that everyone could understand. “I want to cut the hierarchy between rich people’s culture and the poor. Theatre is supposed to be for everyone – it can be played on the streets and costs little money. Here in Penang, we are lucky to have a longpreserved street tradition,” says Aida. Having trained both locally and internationally, Aida’s inspirations are wide-ranging and eclectic. She reserves a particular regard for two great Malaysian mentors – Marion D’Cruz and Krishen Jit. Their example enabled Aida, in her own way, to combine influences from all round the world, to reinvent from the traditions – and then transform them. The result is a dance form that is contemporary, innovative and critical. It is also politically engaged. Female Power An interesting double thread runs through much of Aida’s dance journey: the need to represent female resistance and the notion of Mother Earth as a manifestation of feminine power and spirit. Ta’a was one of her earliest projects, and it has much to say about her passion in advocating women’s issues. Ta’a, which means “obey” or “comply”, was first created as her final-year project at the University of North Carolina in 1993. It was conceived as a form of cultural critique of the patriarchal system that subordinates women to men, particularly in Malay-Muslim society – the assumption of women’s obedience and obligation to their husbands. It questions “women’s lives that have to be given to the men, the father and the children,” she adds. For Aida it is the environment that holds the key to another possible world. Besides reaching larger audiences, it is also the reason she works outdoors most of the time. Each of her recent major productions – River Meets Light, Bridges and Kaki Lima and Cross Waves and Moving Jetties – engages directly with the immediate environment: a river, an urban streetscape, the sea. And this concern lies at the heart of her current production. The Moved by Padi project, born in Balik Pulau and to be brought to the streets of George Town later this year, is a mixed media production that is best described as a creative act. It encompasses visuals, installations and music in an experiential site-specific dance performance honouring the semangat (spirit) of paddy, and the local community’s ways of living with rice – as a source of existence and self. “Because I care for nature I can very much relate to the role of nurturing in both the mother and in Mother Nature,” Aida explains. This is no mere romanticism, but an ethos of how people should conduct their “Because I care for nature I can very much relate to the role of nurturing in both the mother and in Mother Nature,” Aida explains. This is no mere romanticism, but an ethos of how people should conduct theirlives. “I regard Mother Earth as a feminine power and spirit. It’s important for us to raise our children to care for women, to love our mothers – to reduce violence and bullying. At the same time, we must bring them up to care for nature, the mother spirit. I dance the soul of the mother. I am the mother. I am the warrior in the context of my work with nature.” Overcoming Obstacles South-East Asia is a region where various local arts and traditions thrive. Nevertheless, these ethnically specific traditions, particularly those that are practised all over Malaysia, are under considerable strain. Public performances of wayang kulit, mak yong, menorah and main puteri face marginalisation or even extinction. This is mainly due to the introduction of many regulations by the government, as most of these art forms are claimed to be un- Islamic. But it also has to do with the loss of an audience in the face of competing popular entertainments. Swimming against the tide, initiatives such as Ombak-Ombak have organised a whole range of cultural events to promote local performing arts, particularly in urban areas. For Aida, such movements to raise awareness are extremely important. This is especially so in a country where conservative ideas dominate the socio-religious and cultural discourses. “Take Indonesia, for example. They preserve their old arts and traditions even though they are the biggest Muslim country in the world. These arts are our identity and we don’t have to touch them,” says Aida. And places like Penang at least seem to welcome both traditional and modern art forms in a more tolerant way. The biggest obstacle for Aida is time. She has a lot of hats to wear: a wife, a mother, an artiste and a social activist. On top of that, being an artiste in Malaysia is not as secure an undertaking as in Western countries, where the arts receive greater public subsidies and sponsorship. In Malaysia it’s a different story. “The arts don’t pay. I always tell my dance students that they have to start thinking about their future. Being an artiste in this country is not bright and glamorous. It’s an arduous path.” The lack of production companies and producers is one of the biggest challenges faced by artistes, particularly in Penang. “Here, there is no one who can take executive producer roles. I have to do that myself, but it is very hard,” says Aida. Having that capacity is vital to allowing artistes to work in various productions instead of working alone, which could stunt their progress. And to that end, she has recently initiated the Euphoria Penang Modern Dance Ensemble that focuses on developing and empowering a young team to create new dances that are strongly rooted in diverse cultural forms. “I want them to take ownership of our Malaysian cultures and create a new Malaysian dance identity and form,” she says. Despite the obstacles, Aida is determined to explore new ideas with even greater verve and vitality. “We are now in 2016 and I really feel that it is time to do my own creations where I am also performing, including projects I’ve put off.” She is a living embodiment of the truth that performing arts have a unique capacity to inspire. “I want to use dance as means to make change, to raise awareness and to mobilise action. It’s the very core of why I do what I do.” *This articles was first published in Penang Monthly, March 2016.

Milner sendiri tidak menyelimuti kata ini dengan selendang Inggeris, sebaliknya terus bersanggama dalam kamar tersendiri dengan ketelanjangan kata yang ditatapnya. Mungkin ianya bertitik-tolak dari rasa gelisah; gelisah terhadap pertanyaan-pertanyaan yang terus menerus bercambah dari setiap jawapan yang saya peroleh. Mungkin juga kerana lemas dan ingin lepas dari segala beban penempelan yang dipikul sejak dari lahir. Atau mungkin kerana ada sedikit kerinduan untuk mengenal diri sendiri. Tetapi, yang jelas ianya bukan berhulu dari rasa takut – seperti takut orang akan kehilangan atau menjadi kedana di tanah tumpah darah sendiri – yang mengheret saya untuk menterjemahkan buku berjudul the Malays tulisan Anthony C. Milner. Buku tulisan seorang sejarawan asal Australia yang sering melabuhkan punggungnya di banyak negara di Asia Tenggara ini hadir di meja tulis saya tidak beberapa lama setelah ianya diterbitkan pada tahun 2008. Penerbitannya, baik disengajakan atau tidak, sangat tepat pada waktu. Tahun itu adalah tahun genting dalam sejarah politik negara. Masakan tidak, buat julung kalinya kerusi Barisan Nasional (BN) di parlimen tergoncang. Parti gabungan yang memegang tampuk kuasa selama hampir enam dekad itu gagal menguasai dua pertiga dewan meskipun berjaya meraih undi popular dalam pilihanraya umum ke-12 yang berlangsung pada tahun sama. Sejak dari itu, politik negara beralih kepada satu fasa baharu dengan mematikan sedikit demi sedikit rasa takut rakyat terhadap keadaan hidup tanpa percaturan BN. Ini mungkin gara-gara Hishammuddin Tun Hussein, seorang ahli politik barisan hadapan UMNO, yang menjulang keris dalam perhimpunan agung parti itu tiga tahun sebelumnya. Matlamatnya barangkali untuk menunjuk wira atau membakar semangat orang Melayu supaya berteduh di bawah payung UMNO bagi mempertahankan hak-hak mereka. Apa pun alasannya, tingkahnya itu mengundang kecewa orang bukan-Melayu sehingga terjadilah “Tsunami Politik” yang, pada sepuluh tahun kemudian, telah menamatkan riwayat pemerintahan partinya sendiri. Tidak mengejutkan, politik yang dibentuk oleh rasa takut terhadap nasib kaum ini bukan perkara baru jika dibandingkan dengan usia muda negara ini. Jauh sebelum anak-anak di tanah jajahan merasai merdeka dan mengenal tanah ini sebagai Malaysia, ajakan-ajakan untuk perjuangan nasib kaum sudah-pun digemakan di pentas-pentas ceramah, di warung-warung kopi mahupun di dalam surat khabar. “Kita orang-orang Melayu telah hidup di dalam kegelapan sejak beberapa kurun yang lain. Kita tidak mempunyai peluang untuk mengangkat kepala untuk bersuara bagi menuntut kebebasan. Inilah peluang keemasan untuk kita bersatu memperjuangkan tuntutan kita”, laung akhbar Suara Rakyat pimpinan Ahmad Boestamam yang diterbitkan pada bulan Jun 1946. Ajakan tersebut sudah tentunya dihalakan kepada orang Melayu untuk mengusir penjajah Inggeris yang sudah sekian lama mengurung kebebasan mereka dalam menentukan jalan hidup sendiri. Permintaannya adalah untuk rakyat kemudiannya hidup dan membangunkan tanah air sendiri secara bersama. Namun, jauh selepas negara ini memperoleh merdeka, seruan “hidup Melayu” yang pernah dilaungkan semasa perhimpunan melawan gagasan Malayan Union tujuh puluh empat tahun lalu, kini kembali berkumandang. Tetapi tujuannya bukan lagi untuk menghalau penjajah, sebaliknya untuk membangkitkan semangat melawan sesama sendiri. Sejak dari pilihanraya umum ke-12, UMNO sudah mula menghitung nasib politiknya. Namun, senja politik parti yang berhujung pada tahun 2018 itu tidak semestinya menghadirkan cahaya kepada sekalian rakyat. UMNO kembali mengasah senjata lama yang tajamnya kini bukan kepalang. Dalam politik gaya sebegini, kaum menjadi pertimbangan utama, menyamarkan segala bentuk pengenalan diri lain yang jauh lebih signifikan. Keunikan dan perbezaan yang ada pada diri setiap individu perlahan-lahan diketepikan. Pada hari ini, mengenali aku ataupun engkau, tidak lebih daripada sekadar mengenali seorang Melayu ataupun seorang Islam. Tahun 2008 juga merupakan tahun saya melangkah keluar dari negeri tempat lahir, Kelantan, mengejar nasib di negeri bahagian utara negara. Sudah tentunya, yang saya bawa bersama tidak hanya selonggok pakaian. Malah, penempelan-penempelan seperti budak Kelantan, orang Melayu, beragama Islam, dan penyokong PAS terpaksa dikilik bersama. Beban penempelan-penempelan ini bukan ringan. Kesemuanya berpengaruh terhadap duduk letaknya saya nanti di tempat baharu. Tempelan-tempelan ini mengandung pelbagai jenis jangkaan: seorang Melayu-Islam-Kelantan mestilah sebegitu sebegini dan tidak boleh sedemikian. Maka untuk saya, buku Milner ini hadir pada pertemuan antara kegelisahan saya akan pertanyaan-pertanyaan tentang identiti diri dengan rupa politik negara yang, suka ataupun tidak, semakin mengajak masyarakat untuk membina benteng dan berwaspada dengan kehadiran “yang lain”. *** Setelah lebih satu dekad penerbitannya, saya bertemu Anthony Milner di Kuala Lumpur dengan cadangan untuk menterjemahkan bukunya itu ke dalam bahasa Melayu. Walau bagaimanapun, menterjemahkan buku the Malays, yang asalnya ditulis untuk khalayak pembaca akademik, bukan suatu kerja mudah, apatah lagi jika terjemahan ke dalam bahasa Melayu-nya merupakan cubaan untuk mendedahkan kerja Milner kepada khalayak pembaca yang lebih umum. Walaupun tidak mengesampingkan sumber-sumber rujukan berbahasa Melayu khususnya hikayat dan surat khabar, Milner juga banyak berpaut kepada penelitian-penelitian yang di buat oleh para pengkaji Inggeris yang lebih awal darinya. Milner hanya hadir untuk menawarkan satu sudut pandang lain dengan menyusun kembali bukti-bukti sedia ada. Tidak kurang juga bahawa bukti-bukti ini adalah stereotaip-stereotaip yang datangnya dari salah pandang para pengkaji, yang kebanyakannya adalah para pengembara dan pegawai penjajah Inggeris. Namun, saya menganggap kerja penterjemahan perlu dilayan tidak hanya sekadar satu usaha pemindahan kata-kata dari satu bahasa ke bahasa yang lain. Jika tugasnya semudah itu, sudah tentu banyak teknologi hari ini boleh menggantikan tugas para penterjemah. Paling tidak, penterjemah melakukan usaha untuk menghidupkan sesebuah karya yang dilahirkan dari satu-satu dunia ke satu dunia yang lain. Maka, karya-karya terjemahan akhirnya tidak hanya dapat di baca, tetapi juga dapat dirasai. Penterjemahan adalah pemindahan makna dan rasa melalui landasan kata-kata. Kedua-duanya boleh bertaut sesama sendiri, namun boleh juga terlepas dari satu sama lain sehingga kata-kata hanya disampaikan tanpa kehadiran makna. Tugas penterjemah adalah untuk memastikan beban-beban makna dan rasa ini bergerak pada landasan yang kukuh, selamat sampai ke wilayah-wilayah pembaca berlainan. Bagi saya, menterjemahkan the Malays adalah satu usaha untuk membuka satu pintu lain yang telah memisahkan masyarakat akademik dengan masyarakat umum. Setidak-tidaknya, hal ini saya kira sedang terjadi di negara ini. Pada titik ini juga terletaknya belang si penterjemah, yang hampir sama besarnya dengan belang si pengarang. Penterjemah memilih-milah dan mengatur kata-kata yang datang dari kesedarannya, dan beliau memiliki tanggung jawab sendiri terhadap karya hasil terjemahan. Namun, kadang-kala penterjemah tidak juga bermula dengan semudah memilih-milah istilah. Proses penterjemahan buku yang akhirnya diterbitkan dengan judul Melayu atau Kemelayuan ini banyak melibatkan kerja penggalian, atau lebih tepatnya penggalian istilah-istilah. Payahnya bukan seperti memilih yang terbaik dari timbunan buah tomato di pasar raya, apatah lagi kalau teksnya bergulat pada tema-tema sejarah masyarakat, politik Asia Tenggara, dan juga Melayu. Terima kasih kepada kolonialisme Eropah di Kepulauan Nusantara. Jika kita berbicara tentang tema-tema ini dalam konteks moden, kita akan segera memasuki ranah-ranah yang dikerumuni oleh konsep-konsep dan kerangka-kerangka fikir yang berbau kebaratan. Hal ini tidak hanya terjadi dalam kalangan akademik di universiti-universiti, malah kecenderungan yang sama turut mengambil tempat di pelbagai ruang lain termasuklah dalam hal ehwal pemerintahan dan pentadbiran. Lalu pertanyaannya adalah, apakah yang terjadi kepada konsep-konsep yang terlahir dari konteks masyarakat ini sendiri? Adakah ketiadaan kata juga bermakna ketiadaan konsep dalam sesebuah masyarakat tertentu? Jawapannya boleh jadi ya dan boleh jadi tidak. Terjadinya proses penggalian ini adalah kerana kekayaan konsep dan suku kata dalam acuan Melayu mungkin kebanyakannya telah, dengan meminjam istilah Shaharir Mohamad Zain, terfosil. Lihat misalnya konsep-konsep berkaitan masyarakat. Di sini Milner tidak hanya mempertanyakan keberadaan konsep “Melayu” itu sendiri, tetapi turut sama termenung memikirkan sama ada masyarakat yang cuba difahaminya ini pernah memiliki atau berfikir dalam erti kata etnik, kaum, ras, ataupun bangsa. Jadi, kita tidak akan mampu menemui apa-apa kata yang tepat untuk mencerminkan rasa dan cara pandang masyarakat ini, dan akhirnya memaksakan terjemahan langsung dari kata Inggeris. Mungkinkah konsep-konsep ini juga merupakan konsep baharu yang kita mula bermesra setelah datangnya penjajah Inggeris? Menterjemahkan konsep-konsep masyarakat yang datangnya dari acuan Eropah seperti etnik, kaum, ras, dan bangsa ke dalam konteks masyarakat “Melayu” ini perlu dilakukan dengan penuh hati-hati. Jika kita berjalan melalui denai-denai yang dibuka oleh Milner, kita akan bertembung dengan istilah-istilah ini paling awal hanya di dalam dokumen-dokumen banci yang ditulis oleh para pegawai pentadbir penjajah. Sejak kedatangan penjajah Eropah, bentuk masyarakat sedia ada di Kepulauan Nusantara akhirnya mula berubah. Masyarakat dikelaskan dan seringkali dipaksa masuk ke dalam kategori-kategori yang hampir sama dengan bentuk masyarakat di benua Eropah. Maka, mencari kata-kata yang bertepatan juga memaksa penterjemah untuk melalui liku-liku panjang sejarah yang bermula selepas kedatangan penjajah. Namun malangnya, di penghujung sejarah, kita menemui “Melayu” yang akhirnya telah difahami dalam erti kata sempit seperti etnik, kaum, ras, mahupun bangsa. Milner memecahkan kebuntuan ini dengan mencadangkan jalan keluar bahawa masyarakat yang dahulunya mengenal diri mereka tidak lebih dari sekadar nama tempat atau batang-batang sungai ini tidak pun memiliki kesedaran etnik, tetapi kerajaan atau secara harfiahnya bererti “keadaan memiliki seorang raja”. Masyarakat “Melayu” menurut Milner, tidak mengenal diri mereka dalam kaca mata ethnic, race, atau nation, tetapi bernaung di bawah kekuasaan raja-raja yang kesetiaannya senantiasa berubah arah. Di sini, penterjemah akan berhadapan dengan satu lagi cabaran, iaitu untuk bermain dengan kata Kerajaan. Milner sendiri tidak menyelimuti kata ini dengan selendang Inggeris, sebaliknya terus bersanggama dalam kamar tersendiri dengan ketelanjangan kata yang ditatapnya. Mengukur kata Kerajaan dengan kata Inggeris kingdom akan mengherot-benyotkan cara pandang dan mempengaruhi cara layan pembaca terhadap subjek itu sendiri. Tetapi, bagaimana pula penterjemah teks-teks sebegini melayani istilah-istilah Inggeris seperti king, government, atau polity dalam konteks “Melayu”? Istilah-istilah ini sering hadir untuk berteman dengan kata-kata Melayu seperti raja dan kerajaan yang biasa dipakai hari ini. Di sini kita bermain dengan hakikat bahawa kerencaman dan kecairan merupakan asas bagi makna “Melayu”, dan bahawa “Melayu”, dalam sejarah politiknya yang panjang, telah melalui pelbagai bentuk perubahan. Kata kerajaan perlu diberikan keleluasan untuk berdiri sendiri, terlepas dari sentuhan bahasa-bahasa lain di luar konteksnya. Pada hari ini, Indonesia misalnya paling tepat dalam menentukan tempat duduk istilah kerajaan. Negara republik itu mengambil jalan yang jelas dengan meletakkan Kerajaan hanya di dalam lingkungan istana. Kerajaan dalam konteks Malaysia sebaliknya merupakan satu penjelmaan daripada persetubuhan antara semangat feudalisme dengan demokrasi moden. Malah, ianya dengan mudah telah diterjemahkan kepada kata Inggeris iaitu government, berbeza dengan negara jiran itu yang menggandingkannya dengan istilah pemerintah. Dalam menelaah seterusnya menterjemahkan kata Kerajaan, penterjemah sedang menyaksikan satu proses pentakrifan semula, melihat perubahan kata Kerajaan menjadi kerajaan, dengan k kecil. Jangan-jangan, penterjemah juga sebenarnya sedang meratapi satu kehilangan. Seperti mana karya-karya sastera, penterjemahan teks-teks akademik tentang kajian sejarah idea seperti the Malays turut memerlukan pendekatan yang tersendiri. Penterjemah bergelumang tidak hanya dengan kelainan dari aspek kata dan bahasa, tetapi juga dengan pelbagai bentuk pemikiran dalam masyarakat “Melayu” dan proses perkembangannya yang tidak boleh dipandang enteng. Yang lebih penting adalah, pemikiran-pemikiran ini pula kadang-kala memiliki tempat-tempat ataupun kata-kata untuk berteduh, namun seringkali juga tidak. Maka tugasnya penterjemah untuk sedaya upaya berlaku adil dalam memakaikan makna-makna dengan segala katanya. *** Ketika orang sedang sibuk untuk berkerumun di bawah panji Melayu, Milner tidak hadir dengan mengajukan persoalan siapa, tapi apakah sebenarnya Melayu dengan membahas hubungan-hubungan politik dan perdagangan antara masyarakat-masyarakat dan kerajaan-kerajaan yang pernah ada di kepulauan ini suatu ketika dahulu. Mungkin atas dasar latar belakangnya sebagai seorang sejarawan yang berkelengkapan akademik, maka Milner cenderung untuk memberi peringatan bahawa perlu adanya satu bentuk pentakrifan tuntas sebelum sebarang perbicaraan tentang masyarakat ini dimulakan. Sudah tentunya jawapan yang dicari bukanlah melalui pembuktian biologi, seperti mana yang sering dilakukan oleh para pengkaji lain, tetapi sejarah. Melalui naskah-naskah hikayat diraja mahupun surat-surat tinggalan penjajah, yang beliau temui dalam masyarakat yang pada hari ini dikenali sebagai “Melayu” adalah suatu bentuk kerencaman dan kecairan, baik dari segi budaya mahupun identiti. Menurut Milner, sifat -sifat inilah yang perlu diberikan perhatian utama dalam mengenali apa atau kemudiannya siapa itu “Melayu”. Adanya sifat rencam dan cair itu juga menjelaskan bahawa Melayu perlu difahami dalam makna ketamadunan, lebih daripada sekadar dalam makna etnik dan ras yang istilah itu sendiri terlalu asing malah mungkin tidak mahu didekati langsung oleh masyarakat itu sendiri. Akhirnya, kita akan menyedari bahawa perjuangan melalui kerangka kaum akan berakhir dengan banyak kekeliruan dan percanggahan. Dari situ juga kita akan kembali merindui diri sendiri. Membaca the Malays membuka perspektif baharu dalam memahami masyarakat “Melayu”, namun menterjemahkannya kepada Melayu atau Kemelayuan adalah satu usaha untuk memasuki alam “Melayu” atau alam “kerajaan” lewat kekayaan, keindahan dan kehalusan bahasanya sendiri. *Esei ini pertama kali diterbitkan di jurnal Svara.

Armed with sheer tenacity and curiosity, journalists must now solely rely on instinct in lieu of proper guidelines that are in place in order to report on the latest developments. Ever since the World Health Organization (WHO) declared Covid-19 a global pandemic, Zaim Aiman Ibrahim, a Penang-based journalist for The Malaysian Insight, has found himself stopped at an increasing number of police roadblocks – both in Penang Island and on the mainland – when on his way to meet with informants (and keeping to the practice of social distancing), many of whom are government officials and healthcare workers. He has been tasked to report on how the deadly virus has been affecting the livelihood of Penang’s many communities. Getting accurate and credible information on this fast-evolving and far-reaching crisis, has become a matter of life and death. In a sense, this has become Zaim’s new normal. On March 20, journalists of local independent news outlets like The Malaysian Insight, Malaysiakini and Free Malaysia Today were given the mandate to “work from home”. With a final parting message of “take care of yourselves” from editors-in-chief, local journalists doubled down to do their reporting duties. “This is a new situation for all of us – being on the streets, reporting on an unknown and an unseen enemy,” says Zaim. “The only thing we have on for protection is the face mask, but some journalists do also wear rubber gloves. You won’t know if you’ve been infected until the symptoms show, but by then it may be too late.” “It is our families that we are most worried about. Having to treat yourself like a stranger in your own home isn’t fun, but it needs to be done for the safety of our loved ones,” says Seth Akmal, a photojournalist at The Malaysian Insight. He recalls driving down the deserted streets of KL, photographing closed shops, abandoned supermarkets and empty hotel bars. “We have been learning from past epidemic-scale crises, including SARS, Nipah and Ebola to ascertain the impact of the Covid-19 pandemic on Malaysians.” Armed with sheer tenacity and curiosity, journalists must now solely rely on instinct in lieu of proper guidelines that are in place in order to report on the latest developments. “We are guided by the Malaysian Press Institute’s code of ethics, but at this point in time, when a crisis is at hand, a revision is very much in order,” says Akmal. Financially too, things are looking grim for the journalists. “The pandemic is reminiscent of what happened to Utusan Malaysia and Media Prima last year, when they laid off hundreds of employees.” Akmal says that the fear of not having an income is much greater than the fear of the pandemic itself. Fighting Fake News After being tipped off that visitors to a shopping centre in Seberang Perai had to undergo Covid-19 screening, following news of two suspected Covid-19 carriers within the premises that went viral on social media, another challenge soon emerged for the journalists: to fight the spread of fake news. “We’re not just fighting an epidemic, we’re fighting an infodemic,” says Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus, director-general of WHO, adding that fake news “spreads faster than this virus”. “People seem to prefer fake news rather than information from professional newsrooms,” says Zaim. According to the Ministry of Communications and Multimedia, an average of three to five pieces of “weird news” related to Covid-19 have been appearing daily since the virus was first detected. In a bid to contain locally-manufactured pandemic-related fake news, the Malaysian Communications and Multimedia Commission launched an official Telegram channel for the portal last March; and in 2017 the fact-checking portal sebenarnya.my was introduced for Malaysians to verify news and information they received through various channels, especially social media. The popular mobile messaging application WhatsApp also introduced a new limit to the number of messages that users can forward. Messages that are identified as highly forwarded can now only be forwarded to one person, down from five. But the proliferation of many other social media platforms and messaging apps, through which information can go viral almost instantaneously, cancels out the abovementioned initiatives. Fact-checking sites also offer little help, since many believe them to be just another platform endorsing the government’s version of the truth. As a last resort, the authorities have been using specific regulations and laws, e.g. Section 233 of the Communications and Multimedia Act 1998, as grounds for arrests of citizens who are liable for creating and disseminating fake news; in fact, similar laws are an often-preferred measure for many governments in Southeast Asia. In Malaysia the Anti-Fake News Act 2018 that was introduced by the Barisan Nasional government was repealed five months later by the Pakatan Harapan government. Be that as it may, the measures taken by the government in fighting fake news have heightened concerns among journalists and local civil society groups, who worry that such actions may eventually lead to the undemocratic practice of censoring fair and critical comments from the public; this refers expressly to the definition of "fake news" that has been widened to include and criminalise legitimate criticisms against the government and its policies. It now falls to professional journalists to save the situation, but in times of crisis, keeping Malaysians up-to-date becomes a much bigger challenge. Covid-19 has not only changed views on personal hygiene, but also the words used to describe the pandemic as well. “Since the government announced the MCO, journalists have been using different terms to refer to the movement restrictions. Many use ‘lockdown’, while some use ‘quarantine’ and ‘self-isolation’,” says Zaim. Combatting fake news for journalists also means managing readers’ emotions, as fake news can all too easily breed fear. Journalists, including photojournalists, are still looking for the right words to use and the best way to frame their stories in order not to stoke fear. Most local mainstream newsrooms, as providers of immediate-term solutions, are doing their utmost to debunk fake news by publishing the list of viral fake news on their respective news portals, as well as collaborating to share and cross-promote stories. This also enables newsrooms to pick up on good information from other news sources and to avoid re-reporting the same stories. Such efforts have been successful in countries like the US. The long-term solution will be to provide the public with media literacy education, which many Malaysian news portals have begun to do. Rebuilding Trust in Mainstream Media The global pandemic has heralded a new reality for the journalism field. Though with no end in sight just yet, there is nevertheless signs that faith in local mainstream media has been somewhat restored. “People have begun to rebuild their trust in us, especially independent newsrooms. But this is a gradual process,” says Akmal. “Equipped with media passes, only professionally-trained media practitioners are allowed to be on the front line to inform Malaysians about the goings-on of the outside world as best we can.” But the explosion of the number of business-driven blogs and amateur news portals, and the popularity of Twitter and Facebook are still the biggest challengers to good journalism. Being able to balance between business and social responsibility is a necessity, urges Zaim. “The public needs to be more critical, be wise and know how to process the information they read, especially on social media.” *This article appeared in Penang Monthly, May 2020.

Jikalaulah tiada dipakaikan hatta seurat benang, maka bertebaranlah kereta-kereta di jalan merempuh sesama. Maka tercabutlah serban dan kopiah para ustaz. Bahawa sampailah juga hari mengenang kelahiran Nabi Isa. Maka setelah sekian lamanya tidur dan bangun di negeri yang diperintah oleh DAP ini, terasa rindulah sekali hati untuk berangkat pulang. Hampir satu dasawarsa sudah barangkali tidak menghidu udara negeri yang katanya mahsyur dengan gelar serambi Mekah nun jauh di pantai timur. Negeri yang agama dan orangnya, bagai keris dan sarung, tiada pernah ia berpisah. Adalah agama itu menjadi penonton tingkah laku masyarakatnya. Sedari mata mencelik melihat dunia, sehinggalah ke alam kubur. Diriwayatkan juga laki-laki dan perempuan, muda dan tua elok rupanya, teguh sekali imannya. Hari Jumaat, masuknya Zohor, yang berjual-jualan semuanya bubar, berarak-arakan menuju ke masjid. Maka tiada berani satupun kedai buka, satu batang tubuh lelakipun tiada kelihatan tatkala khutbah berkumandang. Di bulan Ramadhan, tatkala penganut Islamnya semua berpuasa, McDonald’s dan KFC yang tiada beragama itu juga ikut semuanya beribadat, tiada lain selain kerana percaya akan yang minoriti itu harus menghormati majoriti. Di negeri ini juga, orang berbicara agama tiadalah berhenti barang sekali. Di surau-surau, di pinggir-pinggir jalan, di pasar-pasar tani, gegak gempita suara para ustaz bertubi-tubi menumbuk gegendang telinga. Orang patuh mendengar dengan mata terpejam, mengangguk-angguk tiada berani bertanya. Sudah tersebar ke seluruh pelosok alam akan ibu negerinya itu dikenal dengan gelar bandar raya Islam. Tiadalah sahaya tergamak berdusta. Di dinding-dinding pasar malah di pintu-pintu jamban, sudah tertampal pesanan-pesanan akan bandar ini bandar yang beragama, agar tiada sesekali orang lupa apa lagi tersesat. Ketika menyusur jalan-jalan melewati daerah-daerah kecil di negeri ini, sempat juga sahaya memandang iklan-iklan segala macam produk yang peragawan dan peragawatinya kemas pakaiannya menutup tubuh hatta untuk iklan seluar dalam. Maka benar, yang diutamakan ketika berpakaian itu adalah kenyamanan dahulu, baru kemudian warnanya. Jikalaulah tiada dipakaikan hatta seurat benang, maka bertebaranlah kereta-kereta di jalan merempuh sesama. Maka tercabutlah serban dan kopiah para ustaz. Itulah yang tiada dimahukan oleh pemerintah negeri yang Islami ini. Katanya, hidup harus berlandas agama. Tiadalah apa ertinya pembangunan, jika perempuannya tiada menutup pusat. Tiadalah ingin pemimpinnya melihat rakyat sendiri terhumban ke neraka, hanya kerana sebuah panggung wayang. Biarlah tiada bersuka-ria, hendaknya terlepas daripada murka Allah. Adapun rakyat yang masih berlapar, rumah mereka tiada beratap itu adalah kerana belum tertegaknya hukum Allah. Kata menterinya, kelambatan pembangunan di negeri itu adalah barang disengajakan. Masakan mahu dipercepat, tiadalah sanggup melihat orang kampung bermabuk-mabuk arak seperti meneguk air sejuk di tepi jalan. Arakian, maka dibangunlah gedung-gedung yang seni binanya Islami, tiadalah berbeza barang sedikit dengan gedung-gedung di tanah Arab. Tiadalah negeri yang lebih Islam daripada Islamnya negeri ini. Pohon-pohon kurma ditanam merata agar terasa suasana Islamnya, adapun pohon-pohon itu tiada ikut berbuah tatkala pohon-pohon kurma yang di Mesir sudahpun berbuah. Yang berjubah dan berserban itu maka menjadi lebih mulia daripada yang bersarung. Negeri Serendah Sekebun Bunga ini, kata ramai pengembara dan pencatit banyaklah sekali sekolah pondok dan madrasah. Orang kampung yang anak-anak muda tiada ingin menjadi orang dicampaknya mereka ke sini. Maka menjadilah manusia. Begitulah cerita yang sudah menjadi buah mulut orang di seluruh semesta. Negeri yang diperintah parti bulan ini makmur sekali, indah pekerti orangnya, alim sekali para pemimpinnya. Tiadalah orang yang tiada suka akan negeri ini. Maka, sahaya yang tiada mudik sudah sekian lama ini turut berasa senang sekali hatinya. Sungguhpun sahaya mudik itu, tiada juga lepas hati sahaya daripada memikirkan segala perkara yang sahaya dengar akan negeri ini. Maka adalah kira-kira lima jam lamanya perjalanan, sampailah sahaya di kota Islam yang sentosa ini, berdiamlah sahaya beberapa hari di kampung tempat sahaya lahir dan bermain. Suatu petang, ketika sahaya enak beristirehat, didatangilah sahaya oleh seorang tetangga, berkopiah putih, bersarung singkat dan tiadalah ia berbaju. Orangnya rajin sekali dalam parti bulan yang sudah memerintah negeri itu lebih dua dasawarsa. Diceritakanlah akan kedai runcitnya yang tiada lama sebelum sahaya mudik mendapat celaka kerana dimasuki pencuri. Si pencuri Maggi dan Milo itu sudah ditangkap oleh seorang encik yang kebetulan sedang berkehulu-kehilir meronda pada malam kejadian. Tiadalah ingin dia meronda jika tiada kerana marah akan berkampit-kampit baja subsidi kepunyaannya yang turut sama hilang dicuri beberapa minggu sebelum. Tiadalah dapat diberi bukti apakah gerangan pencuri sama yang mengebas baja-baja subsidi itu. Adapun demikian, tiadalah sedikit orang berkisah bahawa itu tiadalah lain daripada kerja anak jantannya sendiri yang sehari-hari kerjanya hanya memerap di rumah. Tiada melakukan sebarang kerja hatta menebas rumput. Sahaya yang sudah mula merasa gelisah dan keliru itu ditubi lagi oleh si tetangga orang parti bulan yang berkeluh-kesah itu dengan cerita akan orang muda-mudi di kampung yang semakin hari semakin bertambah mereka yang tiada kerjanya, namun hidup mahu sahaja ikut bermewah-mewahan. Di kampung sebelah, projek oleh JKKKP untuk membuka sebuah gelanggang sepak takraw tiadalah siap lagi walau sudah lebih tiga tahun hanya kerana simen-simen sering sahaja hilang. Maka mencari akallah orang kampung untuk menjerat si pengkhianat itu. Setelah tertangkap, maka gemparlah orang kampung, merah padam rupa setiap seorang tiada tertahan rasa malu. Tiadalah buruh Indonesia yang membawa bala itu, akan tetapi pemuda kampung sendiri yang tiadalah lain kariernya selain mencuri. “Ini tiada lain kalau bukan kerana pil kuda!”, tengking si tetangga itu. “candu yang dibawa masuk dari Siam. Tiadalah sedikit orang muda yang bercerai-berai rumah tangganya kerana pil setan itu”, sambung ia. Maka melompatlah sahaya terkena sergahan itu. Si tetangga sahaya itu bercerita, nun di hujung kampung adalah sebuah kandang kambing. Di belakang kandang kambing itulah mereka bersuka-suka. “Tiadalah jalan lain untuk menyelamatkan orang kampung selain menghidupkan hukum hudud di negeri ini”, tegas si tetangga itu tatkala menjentik habuk rokok daunnya ke tanah. Amatlah yakin ia akan hujahnya itu. Rasa keliru sahaya berubah menjadi gusar. Bertanya dalam hati sahaya, apakah benar negeri yang sahaya mudik ini? Wajah-wajah Islami yang sahaya bayang-bayangkan sebelumnya tiadalah satu yang mengena. Syahdan, maka adalah dalam antara sekalian perkara itu, ada satu perkara lain yang dikisahkan kepada sahaya, iaitu akan kemalasan orang kampung yang tiada ingin menjaga kebersihan. Tatkala menyusuri jalan-jalan kecil di kampung, lorong-lorong di daerah kota, maka jelas banyaklah timbunan sampah yang tiada berkutip. Adapun yang tua mahupun muda, yang beriman atau yang tiada imannya tiadalah tahu akan agama juga menuntut kebersihan. Di rumah-rumah yang dibangun di tepi-tepi parit dan sungai tiadalah tong sampah, maka dibuanglah sampah di tebing-tebing parit dan sungai atau dilonggokkan di tiang elektrik. Adapun orang kampung tiada sedikit yang beranak ramai, tiadalah mereka tahu membuang lampin anak pada tempatnya. Majlis daerah malaslah sekali geraknya, jarang sekali datang untuk mengutip. Dengan nada mengeluh, si tetangga ini berkata bahawa negeri ini jugalah orang yang terjangkit virus Aids paling ramai jumlahnya padahal sudah diharam berniaga tuak masam, apatah lagi mengadakan pesta-pesta arak. Sudah sekian banyak nama-nama Allah dipacak di tepi-tepi jalan, gedung-gedung pasar sudah dipasangkan kubah-kubah bawang agar tampak seperti masjid, agar orang senantiasa mengingat Tuhan, akan tiadalah juga menjadi. Sahaya diam tiada berbicara barang sepatah. Barangkali, yang mengukur Islaminya tidak negeri parti bulan ini bukanlah berapa banyak pohon kurma yang ditanam, berapa keras para pemimpin lebainya memarahi perempuan yang tiada memakai tudung, atau berapa besar serbannya. Tetapi, berapa makmur ekonominya agar muda-mudinya mendapat kerja, akan kemampuan para pemimpinnya memerintah agar kekayaan dapat dijamah bersama, tiada hanya dibolot oleh sebilangan pemimpin. Mungkin juga yang menjadi pengukur akan Islaminya tidak kita adalah ketika orang yang agamanya bermacam-macam lainlah itu berasa terbela dan turut sama dihormati. Orang mampu berpergian ke sana sini dengan mudah dengan adanya sistem pengangkutan awam yang baik, jalan-jalannya bagus. Bukankah agama juga mengajar agar kita tiadanya merosak alam menebas hutan sesuka hati? Agama tiada hanya menyuruh untuk menghafal, tapi juga untuk menghasil, bukan? Mungkin ada benarnya. Di sebalik citra-citra Islami yang sahaya dengar di Facebook, radio dan televisyen itu, ada citra lain yang memang tiada menyenangkan juga di negeri ini. Negeri ini tiadalah banyak peluang-peluang kerjanya. Tiada sedikit orang muda berkelana mencuba nasib di tempat orang seperti dirinya sahaya. Adapun yang masih tinggal di kampung ini tiadalah juga berani berubah apalagi menderhaka. *Esei ini pertama kali diterbitkan di The Malaysian Insight, 29 Disember 2017.

No frills, just good old kopi and nasi lemak with kuih on the side – that’s the essence of the Malaysian warung. The moment Pak Mat stands up from his chair, fixing his shabby East Coast batik sarong and reaching for his Kelantanese batik lepas headcloth that has been hanging all day from the mother pillar of his old wooden Malay house, the only words that come out from Mek Yah’s sireh-filled mouth are, “Tubik mlepok la tu!” (“You’re going out to lepak again!”) Pak Mat starts his Honda C70 motorcycle and rides away without replying . She knows he is going to Kedai Dollah, a warung located at the heart of Kampung Kuchelong, for a cup of coffee. It usually leads to hours of Dam Aji (checkers), accompanied with rolls of Javanese tobacco leaf cigarettes. Kedai Dollah has become the most popular warung in the village, frequented by young and old, since the owner hired a dazzling young lady from Narathiwat Province, Thailand, to wait tables; she also happens to be a distant relative. Kedai Dollah is typical of village life: a warung is a place to lepak; every so often it would also turn into a gambling pit where the audience or “commentators” outnumber the players. As a Kelantanese-born Malay, I moved to Penang in 2008 and that was when I first met different people and experienced different cultures. My perception on what we call a Malay warung has since changed: the warung – or kopitiam in Hokkien and cafe in French – is actually a global fashion. Each has its own style but share one thing in common: coffee. Symbol of the Traditional Malay Village The warung is common sight at roadsides, built haphazardly with walls of cheap planks. But it is much more than just a place to eat and drink – it is a facet of Malay society. “People stop at the warung in the mornings not only for food, but also for the simplicity, the convenience and the sense of tradition. Look at how most warung owners run their business – they don’t care if you don’t have enough cash, you can pay tomorrow,” says Sulaiman, a regular customer at Roti Jala Belimbing Cafe at Teluk Bahang. Each kampung has at least one small warung that is comprised of a few areas such as the kitchen, the drinks section, the dining area and a roti canai pit, usually located near the entrance. Most warungs open as early as 6.30am to serve breakfast to villagers returning from Fajr prayers at the nearby mosque or surau, and to workers and school children. Older men in sarong, baju Melayu and kopiah sit together on a long wooden bench, enjoying coffee and a packet of nasi lemak while waiting for the sun to rise. Occasionally, stories of village politics break the morning silence. It is this longing for the good old days that lead people to the warung, drawn by the saccharine sweetness of kuih tepung pelita and the fragrant scent of lepang pisang wrapped in banana leaf. Rapid development has indeed left many longing for the traditional even before it is gone; skyscrapers and shopping malls replace paddy fields and traditional houses, and erases the sense of community bit by bit. For many, especially those living in Batu Uban and Tanjung Tokong, warungs offer “refuge” – a place to reminisce over what is gone. “You can’t take the ‘sense of kampung’ out of a person. Everything is becoming more expensive, especially food. So I go to warungs for my breakfast; at least it makes me think of my mom’s (house) in the kampung,” says Akmal Zakaria, from Parit Buntar. In pre-Independence Malaya, when the literacy rate was still low, the warung served as a place for village folks to gather and “listen” to the news: those who could read would narrate stories from the newspapers. News travelled by word of mouth, circulated at warungs in the form of pamphlets, newsletters and newspapers. Today, the situation is not dissimilar: the warung has become an arena for villagers to spread political gossip; it is also used by local politicians to meet and greet voters. Good Food, Anytime Malaysia has countless varieties of kuihs – bite-sized snacks that can be enjoyed any time of the day. Sold in three-wheeled bikes as in Kelantan and Terengganu, in pickup trucks among the Malay community in Patani, or piled high in baskets in warungs, they are ready to be eaten together with teh tarik or coffee. Kelantan, being next to Thailand, has always seen people crossing the border in both directions. This brings together not only money and goods, but also language and food – and colourful kuih. Nek bat, puteri mandi, akok, bunga tanjung, jala emas and tepung serunai are among the varieties of Kelantanese kuih found in warungs. In turn, the west coast’s kuih keria, serabai, apom telur, roti jala, Iranian-origin confection halwa maskat and Fujianese-style fresh spring roll, the popiah, all reflect their Indian, Chinese, European and Middle Eastern roots. Then there are the favourite Malaysian staples, nasi lemak and roti canai. “I put the roti canai and roti jala pit in the front of my warung so that people can see that they are my specialties,” says Zulkifli, owner of Warung Roti Canai in Kampung Labok, Kelantan. A warung sustains itself by having multiple ownerships, usually shared between the drink-maker, the cook, the roti canai roller and the kuih seller. It is also a local economic hub, by virtue of being the venue for members of the community to sell their products, particularly homemade kuih. In Melaka and Kelantan, with support from the government, kuih-making has become an intensive supporting business, particularly in Alor Gajah and Jasin where kuih selayang, kuih bangkit and tapai are extensively made for export and local consumption. Urbanisation has gradually altered the warung – many have adapted to urban needs. While the warung still retains its traditional facade in the kampung, in many city areas, they have morphed into food courts. Be that as it may, these remain a place for food, for chats and for cultural intermingling. This article was first published in Penang Monthly, December 2017.

The flourishing of an independent publishing industry in the last few years has gone hand in hand with a renewed interest in the art and craft of translation. Penang has an important place in the history of translation in South-East Asia and has therefore the potential to ride a new wave of literary creativity. By: Gareth Richards and Izzuddin Ramli Penang emerged as a significant print centre during the nineteenth century. In turn, this helped spur the development of a market for all kinds of published materials. And, as we have seen, this included a significant output of literary work, both in the languages of the peninsula and in translation. But its position was eclipsed – perhaps inevitably – in the process of post-war nation building. Pre-war Ferment The years leading up to the Second World War laid the foundations for a newly engaged cultural milieu throughout the Malay peninsula. This was perhaps most obviously articulated in a burgeoning Malay nationalist consciousness, whose embryonic leadership created networks to mould a mass constituency, both in Penang and elsewhere. One remarkable example of this was Sahabat Pena, or penfriends’ league, established by Syed Sheikh al-Hadi’s Penang journal Saudara, which developed into the largest Malay organisation prior to the war. As Tim Harper notes: “It had 12,000 members at its peak, and held its first national conference in November 1934 which drew together large numbers of articulate men and women as self-acknowledged agents for social and cultural advancement.” At the same time, a new language began to take form. Throughout the peninsula, modernisers of various stripes started associations to reform the Malay language and expand vernacular publishing. In 1936 some 10,000 copies of a dictionary, Buku Katau, were printed and then used at the Sultan Idris Training College in Tanjong Malim, which became the key centre for the higher education of Malays in the pre-war period. As Rachel Leow says, the college was “renowned for its radical literary graduates, early innovations in the Malay language, and its interventions into a vernacular Malay public sphere.” This manifested itself in the emergence of a new literary style, notably in political journalism and novels that both celebrated a love of homeland and grappled with the real issues of everyday life. These concerns included economic weakness, political marginal i sat i on and religious reform. While it is true, as Ariffin Omar contends, that the attempt to construct a viable Malay nationalist movement in the 1930s was essentially a “failure”, the foundations for a new political narrative were nonetheless established. Efforts to institutionalise translation work beyond the efforts of individual publishers were also in progress. Sultan Idris Training College was designated as the colonial government’s official translation office, with a mandate for providing texts in Malay for use in Malay schools. Pejabat Terjemah Menterjemah – later renamed Pejabat Karang Mengarang – was under the direction of the well-known scholar-administrator R.O. Winstedt, but the chief translator for many years was the celebrated social critic and linguist, Zainal Abidin bin Ahmad (Za’ba). He came up with a two-year training programme and taught translators himself. Beginning in the 1920s, Pejabat Karang Mengarang oversaw two major translation programmes. The Malay School Series published an eclectic range of titles covering school subjects, handicrafts and even books for Boy Scouts and Girl Guides. The second programme is of greater literary interest. With Za’ba at the helm, the Malay Home Library Service published a total of 64 titles for both children and adults right up to the period before independence. The titles make for fascinating reading: Around the World in Eighty Days, Gulliver’s Travels, Treasure Island, Sherlock Holmes, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Aladdin and the Magic Lamp and more of a similar ilk. Aside from the efforts of the official colonial education system, private presses (including those in Penang) continued to make important contributions. The reshaping of language in this period and beyond owes a great deal to Muhammad bin Hanif, a singular figure in laying the groundwork for the postwar political lexicography and someone who, thanks to the careful research of Rachel Leow, is now better known than he once was. Muhammad bin Hanif was in important ways a product of Penang’s rich intellectual milieu of the 1920s and 1930s, who took advantage of the relative religious and press freedom there compared to the situation in the Malay states on the peninsula. Literate in Malay, Arabic and English, he read and contributed to a range of local newspapers. He was in a position to observe the role of Penang within the empire and its status as a regional trading entrepot, as well as the relative dominance of Chinese merchants in that trade. He was also exposed to the flow of ideas, publications and writers from across the Straits of Malacca. The political language Muhammad bin Hanif helped forge would find new expression after the traumas of the Japanese occupation and war. Fashioning a New Language Muhammad bin Hanif wrote a great deal in the immediate aftermath of the war. But of greatest significance was his Kamus Politik, a dictionary of politics published by one of the leading Malay-language presses of the day, the United Press located on Jalan Dato Keramat in Penang. Written in Jawi, Rachel Leow calls the Kamus a “compelling and uniquely modern text”. There were some precedents from the Dutch East Indies, but they were romanised and tended to be translated from European dictionaries and encyclopaedias. As she records, Muhammad bin Hanif was “prompted to personally compile his dictionary because of the number of political terms entering Malay, which were little understood by most Malay readers.” The dictionary was therefore as much a sketch of a language coming to terms with a rapidly changing world as a narrow exercise in lexicography. It contains definitions of over 700 words considered “new” in the Malay peninsula, including political concepts drawn from the experience of world war. “There is also a deep intellectual engagement with empire,” with lengthy definitions of words associated with colonial rule – “mandate”, “trusteeship” and “Commonwealth” – as well as glosses of words from the Arab world and India. Taken together, this was, as Rachel Leow concludes, one of the most important contributions to “the language of new politics in a nation extricating itself from colonial rule”. And in this sense, Muhammad bin Hanif can be considered as an exceptional individual who connected the wider world to very specific, local interests, combining both a cosmopolitan and parochial sensibility. The post-war Malayan world was also deeply affected by the Japanese occupation in all kinds of unexpected (perhaps unintended) ways, and more in terms of form than content. Japanese ideological education – its rhetoric and propaganda – found all kinds of resonances in Malay thought and culture. And as Tim Harper highlights, “important networks of journalists, actors, film-makers and propagandists were formed in the war”. Above all, Nipponisation had taught that “language held the key to power”. Culture Wars Unsurprisingly, much of the literary output of the post-war period was devoted to the process of nation building, both before and after 1957. This meant a shift of publishing and translation activities to the federal capital, Kuala Lumpur. The founding of the national language planning agency, Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, in 1956 (which moved from Johor Bahru to Kuala Lumpur a year later) was the most obvious sign of this institutionalisation. In many ways, Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka took on the role that Sultan Idris Training College had pioneered, by continuing the practice of translating and publishing Malay books for schools and later for higher education institutions. In doing so, it also created an authorised Malay literary canon. Inevitably, publishing and translation activities became deeply implicated in the culture wars that simmered sporadically in the 1950s and 1960s and that would flare into full-scale antagonism after the passing of the National Language Bill in 1967 and especially in the aftermath of the National Culture Congress of 1971. And at the centre of the culture wars was the question of language. On the surface, the purpose of promoting Malay was to release Malaysian minds from the fetters of colonial rule and supposed elitism, embodied above all in the English language. But the language policy was also directed at circumscribing the official use of languages other than English. Article 152 of the Federal Constitution had guaranteed the right of all ethnic communities to use, maintain and develop their mother tongues. In practice, however, the sustained aim of successive governments was to create a Malay-based national language, culture and education system. The plurality of the linguistic landscape was to give way to the privileging of Malay as the sole official language of postcolonial Malaysia. Under the energetic directorship of Syed Nasir Ismail, Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka set about pushing back “the tide of English” and establishing Malay as a modern language capable of being used in government, science, politics and literature. It was situated firmly at the centre of the postcolonial policy direction, as it pressed ahead with efforts to select, translate and publish books to be consumed throughout the education system. By 1967 the National Language Bill passed by Parliament rejected official status for all languages other than Malay, though the final version of the bill outlined some exceptional instances and hedged on the question of multilingualism, allowing for Malay translations of documents from other language communities, including English, Mandarin and Tamil. In any case, these compromises satisfied no one. Malay language activists accused Tunku Abdul Rahman of “having sold Malays down the drain”. After all, Syed Nasir had already threateningly declared: “those people who advocated the principle of multilingualism are treading on dangerous ground and adopting a very unhealthy attitude which is very dangerous for the people of this country”. Meanwhile, champions of the Chinese language were equally affronted by its exclusion from official discourse. Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka redoubled its efforts to promote Malay as the language not only of education and government but also of a “national literature”. And it was not to be any kind of “debased” Malay but bahasa Melayu tulen (unadulterated Malay) or Melayu halus (refined Malay). The possibilities for linguistic pluralism and hybridity were effectively shut down in the name of an authoritative purity. By the early 1980s Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka formally established a dedicated translation department in order to institutionalise its programmatic activities that had been present since its inception. The translated titles ranged across academic disciplines, including literary publications. It is clear that those titles chosen for publication precisely reflected the perceived developmental needs of the country – in entirely instrumental ways – and, above all, the locked-in trajectory of the national language policy. Institut Terjemahan dan Buku Negara The further institutionalisation of officially sanctioned translation work saw the establishment of Institut Terjemahan dan Buku Negara (ITBN, National Institute of Translation and Book Production) in 1993. The institute effectively took over translation matters previously handled by Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka. Its rationale was straightforward enough: “to increase the translation and publication of quality knowledge-based material into Malay, to increase efforts in the translation and publication of important national work into foreign languages, and to support the government policy and interested parties in the field of translation and book publication.” Well over a thousand translated titles were produced over the next two decades. There has been a modest emphasis by ITBN on the translation of literary work, both of local literature into foreign languages and vice versa. To this end, there have been some interesting collaborations, and some surprising ones. In conjunction with the Goethe-Institut, Lat’s Kampung Boy came out in German as Ein Frechdachs aus Malaysia, while Goethe’s celebrated collection of lyrical poems, West-östlicher Divan, inspired by the great Persian poet Hafez, was published under the title Sajak-sajak daripada Diwan Barat-Timur. IBTN’s programme with the publishing company Les Indes savantes has seen the works of national laureates translated into French, including Anwar Ridhwan, Keris Mas and A. Samad Said. IBTN has also taken responsibility for republishing some wellknown Japanese novels, including Desi Salji (Snow Village) by the celebrated Yasunari Kawabata. Meanwhile, the recently published Antologi Cerpen: Malaysia-Taiwan, done in partnership with the Taipei Chinese Centre PEN International, marks a breakthrough in Malay-Chinese cross-translations. The New Wave Government-sponsored translation work continues. But it is still constrained – as it has been for more than four decades – by conservatism, coercion and censorship, and the law. The notorious level of official proscription across a whole range of artistic forms – film, theatre, television, music, the press, cartoons as well as books – is well known. Silverfish Books, the independent bookshop in Bangsar, reports that censorship or outright banning has applied to literary authors as diverse as Milan Kundera, Khalil Gibran, Chinua Achebe, Salman Rushdie, Anthony Burgess and Irving Welsh. It is quite a stellar list. Malaysian writers like Faisal Tehrani and the award-winning cartoonist Zunar have also been subjected to the red pen and even charges of sedition. Given the ever-present threat of suppression, it is perhaps a bit surprising that both commercial and independent publishers have ventured into the field. The former are obviously attracted by Malaysia’s market potential where books originally written in English (and not translations into English from other languages) predominate. But mainstream publishers are also notoriously allergic to literary fiction in translation. It should be remembered that the global market for literary translations – comprising fiction, poetry, drama, children’s books and creative non-fiction – is absolutely miniscule (for example, about three per cent of total publishing output in Britain). One telling example makes the point. The Penang-born writer Tan Twan Eng has received universal acclaim for two brilliant novels: The Gift of Rain (2007), which was long-listed for the Man Booker Prize, and The Garden of Evening Mists (2012), which won the Walter Scott Prize for Historical Fiction. The first book has been translated into a whole raft of European languages, including Italian, Spanish, Greek, Romanian, Czech, Serbian, French, Russian and Hungarian; while the latter has been translated into Mandarin (in Taiwan), Thai and Korean, among others. But bizarrely neither novel has appeared in Malay, and according to Tan it is not for want of trying. A similar neglect is the experience of other critically praised writers such as Preeta Samarasan or Tash Aw. In light of this inattention, where commercial publishers fear to tread, it has been the independent publishers who have really encouraged a new wave of literary translation. Whatever other motives they may have, there is no doubt that they position themselves as a site of resistance to authority-defined conceptions of culture, including what some see as the dead hand of agencies like Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka. Two long-standing pioneers deserve special mention. Raman Krishnan set up Silverfish Books as a bookshop in 1999 and its publishing house two years later, as a direct response to what he saw as the mediocrity of much Malaysian literature. Today it stands as a leading publisher of Malaysian writing in English, though there has been much less attention given to work in translation with the exception of important historical texts. Optimistic about the future, Raman says in relation to contemporary writing: “Much is happening, but there is much more to be done. There is courage to push boundaries and a hunger to learn.” At around the same time as Silverfish was born, Chong Ton Sin set up Strategic Information and Research Development Centre and its sister organisation GB Gerakbudaya in Petaling Jaya, driven by a more overtly political agenda to prise open democratic space. While the majority of titles on the SIRD list are non-fiction, Chong has also made a commitment to publishing some fiction and poetry titles, and has facilitated translations into and from Malay, Mandarin and English. Equally importantly, GB Gerakbudaya acts as the nationwide and regional distributor for nearly all Malaysia’s independent publishers – the indispensable cog in the book trade. Of all the independent publishers that have made a mark over the last few years, pride of place must surely go to Amir Muhammad’s Buku FIXI, founded in 2011. The imprint has published over 150 titles in Malay and English, specialising in original, edgy, urban fiction. In recognition of its impact, Buku FIXI won The Bookseller International Adult Trade Publisher Award at the 2014 London Book Fair. A more recent development offers yet more creative scope. Under the Fixi Verso imprint, Amir has ventured into literary translation, with Malay-language versions of work by best-selling authors such Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, John Green, Haruki Murakami and others. “I wanted to spread happiness!” Amir says. “These are writers I enjoy reading, so I assume (or hope) that readers who are more comfortable with Malay would enjoy them too.” A translated anthology, Malay Pulp Fiction, is on the cards for release in London in 2017. While publishing a book or at least a story in an anthology may appear to be the Holy Grail to all aspiring writers, it is also true that literary magazines have long been the launching pads for great writing and big ideas. The emergence of a new generation of independent magazines reflects both a crisis and an opening. There has been a falling away of publishing new and experimental writing in institutionally based journals or even commercial magazines and newspapers that used to carry fiction in their pages. Into that vacuum have stepped all kinds of interesting new initiatives, both online and in print. Two of the very best magazines give pride of place to literature in translation. Based in Langkawi for the last nine years, Jérôme Bouchaud is at the forefront of the new wave of literary translation. He has written numerous travel books and translated novels, short stories and poems from English to French. He currently curates Lettres de Malaisie, a Frenchlanguage webzine dedicated to literature from and about Malaysia. He is also the founder of Editions Jentayu, a small publishing venture focusing on pan-Asian literature and literary translation. Its main publication is the eponymous Jentayu review, a biannual literary review dedicated to writings from Asia translated into French that has published close to a hundred writers so far. Bouchaud is philosophical about the vitality of making connections across borders: “Literary translation is to me of utmost importance in today’s world. Living in a globalised world unfortunately doesn’t mean that we understand each other better and that we are willing to open our eyes and empathise with other people’s lives, be they close or far away from us.” For him, literature – “the art of telling stories” – is one of the most potent tools available “to express the particularities and ambiguities of life … to find ourselves in a world that’s at the same time strange and relatable.” The new bilingual literary journal NARATIF | Kisah, recently launched to critical acclaim at the Kuala Lumpur Literary Festival, speaks to the same need. One of its editors, Pauline Fan, has long been involved in the subtle arts of reading, reimagining and translating foreign fiction and poetry. Featuring both established and emerging literary voices from Malaysia and South-East Asia, the journal seeks “to explore the idea of the narrative – through reimaginings, retellings, experimentations with form and genre, as well as through literary translation and visual narratives.” It is a platform that fills a gap, for, as Fan says, “the confluence of oral traditions and written expression is something we come across too rarely in our region.” Future Conditional Literary translation has a long and rich history in the Malay world. And Penang has had a significant place in its development, notably as one of the first print centres in the nineteenth century and in the social and political ferment of the pre-war years. But it is also true that both literary production and the publishing industry have largely shifted to Kuala Lumpur. The gravitational pull of the commercial, political and cultural centre has been irresistible. Nonetheless, Penang is still relatively well positioned to take advantage of a more fluid and more dynamic literary scene, one that may come to rely less on physical location. Local publishers such as Areca Books, Clarity, Entrepot and the state agency George Town World Heritage Incorporated have put out books with high-quality production values, though, with the exception of Clarity’s children’s titles, they have so far steered away from literature. The annual George Town Literary Festival is now firmly established as the country’s premier literary gathering, and a unique opportunity for writers from round the world to gather and exchange ideas. Universiti Sains Malaysia offers a wellregarded graduate programme in translation studies. And Penang itself has an aspiration to rebrand itself as a cultural hub, a dynamic environment conducive to creativity. None of these ambitions will be easy to sustain. A censorious and increasingly intolerant politics of culture is evident in everyday discourse, perhaps worse than ever. Reading habits are changing, less sustained, though the death of fiction has been grossly exaggerated. Sustaining publishing in the long term is a tough business. The regard for language itself is also shifting, becoming more instrumental, less vital, less loved. And writers, especially young writers, will have to abstain from navel-gazing and cast an outward glance onto a world worthy and in need of intelligent, sensitive and engaged writing. Writing that people want to read, in any language. Further Reading Harper, T.N., The End of Empire and the Making of Malaya, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Leow, Rachel, ‘Being modern in Penang: Muhammad bin Hanif and the Penang story’, paper at the Penang and the Indian Ocean Conference, Penang, 16–18 September 2011. Leow, Rachel, Taming Babel: Language in the Making of Malaysia, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Leow, Rachel, ‘What colonial legacy? The Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka (House of Language) and Malaysia’s cultural decolonisation’, in Ruth Craggs and Claire Wintle, eds, Cultures of Decolonisation: Transnational Productions and Practices, 194 –70, Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2016. Sakina Sahuri Suffian Sahuri and Fauziah Taib, ‘The role of translation in education in Malaysia’, in Asmah Haji Omar, ed., Languages in the Malaysian Education System, London: Routledge, 2016. *This article first appeared in Penang Monthly, December 2016.