I watched her as she performed the solat. It seemed so natural to her, the movements, the recitations, even the very act of saying “Aku solat dulu.” Having known her since the days before her conversion to Islam, I was so, so humbled by her simple act of performing her obligations to the Maker. One day, perhaps she will let me share with the world the story of how she found Islam; of how she quietly learned about the religion without really telling her friends. But until then I will hold her in much awe. I watched her prostrate against the Almighty and felt really, really small. Here I was, with more than twenty years’ worth of practise under my belt, and still the recalcitrant Muslim, the sinner; reluctant and slow when it came to my fives. It felt weird.
What felt more weird was being a place where you know the localese, down to every enunciation, every inflection, every long a and silent h, and yet still feel very alien to it all. I last set foot in KB in 2000 – seven years on it seems like everything has changed, and yet in the bat of another eyelid, it feels like nothing has. Reports that Kota Bharu – and in that, Kelantan – has suffered immensely from being under PAS rule seems misleading to me. True, perhaps the rate of change and modernisation in this Eastern state of my birth is slower than that of others, but perhaps those statistics ignore the fact that by nature, Kelantan and the Kelantanese has always been more relaxed; a more laidback state where you can still find nasi berlauk for breakfast that won’t set you back the better part of a ringgit. (Or so I am told. It has, after all, been seven long years).
There are new shops now, new rows of buildings and old ones under reconstruction. Slowly traces of urbanisation are seeping in, and yet the people seem to be desperately traditional. The men stare, and the women eye you suspiciously. Was it us, two women travelling independently? There seemed to be many others, although, arguably, of a different colouring. Was it the way we were dressed, not adhering to any specific code, a hodge podge of fashion that screamed ‘outsider’? There were others of a more pronounced Malay heritage who were able to walk around in similar garb nonchalantly. Was it because I spoke the language, so more was expected of me? That I should know better? Better about what? I found no advantage in being able to converse in the local dialect – for starters I was a lousy bargainer, and everyone was eager to make a quick buck either way. Whatever reason it was, at a particular food stall in Kuala Besut we were not quite offered service with a smile. Perhaps it wasn’t about who we were; more about who we were not. Tourists we were; Mat Sallehs, not quite.
Abe Giggs di depan masjid
After all, it didn’t fit that people found independent women travellers offensive, if you think about it. In Kelantan the dominant breadwinner in more than half of the families are the women; the Central Market in Kota Bharu is named Pasar Siti Khadijah as homage to the Prophet Muhammad’s (pbuh) wife who was an entrepreneur herself, but also in silent allusion to the majority of traders at the market who were women. And yet women continue to be seen as second class citizens, albeit not especially on the East Coast – I find this phenomenon to be a national blight.
I find that Kelantan’s image as an Islamic state is tarnished somewhat by the lecherous men who made no attempt to disguise their staring and gawking. One would assume that men – or people, at that – who pride themselves with being of a certain religious disposition would almost automatically lower their gaze. But I have seen more European men in a region of the world more known for secularism on Barceloneta beach walking amongst topless women without nary a glance. I blame this not on religion – for Islam has worked hard and long at elevating the status of women – but on the general lack of respect for women so inherent in the East, and less pronounced in the West. The more one begins to respect others and stop regarding them as chattel, regardless of whether this is based on race or religion or gender; the less we see implicit oppression in the world we live in today. Yes, an idealistic statement, I know; and one that is oversimplified in its outlook, but sometimes the best things are simple for a reason.
As I sit waiting for the boat that would take us to Perhentian Island, I noticed that the girl who served us was no longer adorning her tudung. Chipsmore, our teachers used to call it back in school – sekejap ada, sekejap tak ada. I saw the same in Kota Bharu the day before; putting paid to rumours that Kelantan enforces the tudung on all women – we are not Iran, and that’s not just because we don’t have nukes, either. At the table opposite us a young man of perhaps 20 walked up to the nasi campur counter and scooped rice into a polystyrene container. I noticed he wore a t-shirt with the famous Jack Daniels brand emblazoned across it, and I wondered if he knew that what Jack Daniels was; in the same way I wonder if kids who proudly wore Osama bin Laden t-shirts post 9/11 on the streets of KL, KB, KT and KK alike knew what Osama stood for or where his political motivations lie.
If it wasn’t for the futsal I’d be tempted to stay here forever (dude, jom bukak pusat futsal kat sini lah!)
The boat was still not at the jetty, and the man who sat opposite us decided that perhaps this was a good time to make small talk. He rambled on about technology, coins and computers; of the alam being what was between the sky and the earth, and that the dunia was what was in the alam – i.e. you and me. He talked about music, and how much he loved Sudirman. “Tipu tu, doctor kata Sudirman mati kena AIDS”, he said in his distinct Kelantanese dialect. “Dia kena santau di Indonesia tuh. Sudirman tu lembut-lembut macam tu, dia tu mana suka perempuan, mana boleh kena AIDS.” I stopped myself from correcting his assumption – not on how the late Sudirman died because I don’t know much about that, but on what causes AIDS. Denial is better for some people.
