Remembering that fateful day in Memali
Memali and Baling, if I had not mentioned earlier, are towns forgotten by the rest of Malaysia. In Memali, especially, there is this stillness, and despite the sprawling greenery, I felt that I could not breathe. Maybe it was all psychosomatic, I imagined too much of the tragedy, but Memali is unsettling.
by Dina Zaman, The Malaysian Insider
Excerpt from Memali incident chapter
My hosts were determined to make my stay the best research trip ever. They took me to the school Chin Peng, the then-leader of the Malayan Communist Party, once hid in and where the Balings Talks took place.
We went to the hot springs in the middle of the afternoon, and spent the rest of the day larking about. Pak Su, Mak Su’s husband, was a demon of a driver. We weaved in and out of traffic, screeched past villages, with an almost busted gearbox.
We screamed when we saw lorries approaching us, and held our breaths when the Kancil careened all over the roads.
We were on our way to meet Tok Bedah, Pak Su’s mother and a healer, who could speak in tongues. Her home was nearby, and made for a quick visit before we met with Ustaz Hilmi, one of Ibrahim Libya’s former students. Tok Bedah had healed thousands of people, Mak Su said.
The house was small and simple. A concrete box, it housed Tok Bedah and a grandchild who was mentally handicapped. She was praying when we entered her house. When she finally came out of her room, I saw that unlike Pak Su who was tall, lanky and had Pakistani looks, Tok Bedah was fair, and had Chinese features. She must have been a beauty when she was much younger.
She looked at me.
“Have you ever heard of saka?” she asked.
The few days I had been in Baling, I marvelled at Mak Su’s and the villagers’ fascination for the paranormal. Anything unusual — it had to be the work of poltergeists or evil intentions sent by the wind.
Saka, in short, is a spiritual inheritance in the form of a ghoul, djinns or spirits. It is not the privilege of the rich and royal; farmers of the old kept them too, to take care of their sawahs. It all depends on the contract: Did you want your ghoulish slave to care for your descendants, or is there a specific need?
“She’s here to do some research on Memali,” Mak Su said.
“You have saka,” Tok Bedah told me.
I gasped. “Eh? No, no, I don’t. I’m just tired from travelling,” I protested.
“You better get rid of it if you want your travels to be safe,” she said before lapsing into Thai.
Her hands danced in the air, and her eyes were closed. She spoke in Thai rapidly.
“Get up!” She spoke in Malay.
I sprang to my feet, looking back to see if there was anything behind me.
“Sit with your legs out front and recite Al Fatihah! I’m going to send your saka back to where it came from!”
“But I don’t…” and whup, whup, whup! Tok Bedah whacked my head with a sejadah.
WHUP!
Hai sakaku
Aku nak berpisah dengan kamu
Aku tak ingin dengan kau lagi
Jangan ganggu aku lagi
Anak cucuku
Keluargaku dan keturunanku
Dari dunia ke akhirat!
“Gone!” and Tok Bedah started talking in Thai again.
Mak Su and Pak Su peered at me. “When you feel much better, we’ll go see Ustaz Hilmi.”
***************************************
From a torture session, we arrived at the mosque Ustaz Hilmi frequented amidst young men revving up their souped-up kapchai motorbikes.
Memali and Baling, if I had not mentioned earlier, are towns forgotten by the rest of Malaysia. In Memali, especially, there is this stillness, and despite the sprawling greenery, I felt that I could not breathe. Maybe it was all psychosomatic, I imagined too much of the tragedy, but Memali is unsettling.
When I stood by the road next to Ibrahim Libya’s home, I remembered a story an editor friend told me. When he and a television crew came to the house to film the family, a flash of light, almost like lightning, flashed through the van and the vehicle shook.
The crew and he dashed out of the van, quite shaken by the experience. My editor friend had spent time in Afghanistan and war-torn countries, and what happened in the van was something he could never explain.
The mosque, despite the various stalls and shops surrounding it, also had an air of abandonment. Yes there were men and boys praying in and walking around the mosque, but the best word perhaps to describe the atmosphere was sunyi.
Pak Su went into the mosque to look for Ustaz Hilmi. A slight man, in his 50s, wearing the baju melayu and sarong, came out with him.
“Oh… you’re the one who wanted to stay in my pondok? Mintak maaf… so many warga emas came to stay… perhaps next time?” he said softly.
Kraaaang!
A motorcycle with two young boys in it drove past us, leaving a trail of exhaust fumes. Ustaz Hilmi got up to speak to them. “… I have guests… quiet?…”
Krang! The boys sped off.
He came back, shaking his head.
“What is it that you want to know?”
“We were told… you were there. During the tragedy.”
He sighed and looked away. He frowned and bit his lip. He scratched his cheek. After sometime, he turned back to us, and said, “Well, this was what happened to me.”
