Introduction

Dina: “Betul ke hok Ya cakak tu? Ya betul betul hamba? Dari Ethiopia?” (Is it true what you said? You are really a slave? From Ethiopia?)

Ya: “Ye. Betul, patik dari Mesir. Asal usul patik… pernoh dengor Ethiopia. Tapi patik duduk kat Mesir, dulu pah tu Mesia lama do-oh.”(Yes. I’m from Egypt. I think my roots are from Ethiopia. But I used to stay in Egypt before moving to Malaysia.)

I met Ya about three times in 2006. She called me on the telephone, telling me to hurry, hurry, time was flying past fast, so we had better get cracking. I flew back each time she called and dashed to the kitchen where she always waited.

One time, she wanted to show that she could dance the tango. She sashayed in the room to an imaginary song and said“Kalu patik dok jage umoh ne, patik jadi pelakon kat Amerika tu! Pelakon favourite patik… Marilyn Monroe. Nok dengor cite Ya, Ku Dina? Ingak ye, lepas tu buat pilem Ya.” (If I were not a caretaker of this house, I would have become an actress in America. My favourite actress is… Marilyn Monroe. Do you want to hear about my story, Ku Dina? Just remember to make a movie about me later.)

Ya stood up and acted out a Hindustani film love scene. She pretended she was behind a tree, wooing her lover. I was delighted.

Ya continued. “Patik nok semboh cerita kat Kak Dina. ini lah cite patik. Orang umoh panggil patik, Ya, Mariam, tapi nok senang, panggil patik Ya. Tapi, nama sebenar Ya, Desta. Bonda patik bagi nama tu kak patik. Itu la hok patik boleh ingat masa patik kecik. Desta.” (I want to share my story with you. This is my story. The people in this household call me Ya or Mariam, but it is easier to call me Ya. But my real name is Desta. My mother gave me that name. That is what I can remember from my childhood. Desta.)

Our interviews were recorded and the excerpts would be shared on this platform here from time to time, just like in chapter one of this series.

Whispers of Ya’s Past

There are many truths to Ya’s story. Family members said she was sent to work for Almarhum Sultan Muhammad Syah II and was accepted as part of them later on.

Another family member and the late Ku Ah had heard that Ya’s aunt had persuaded Ya’s parents to allow her to work for a rich Malay family. What we unanimously agreed on was that Almarhum was a pious man, who abdicated the throne in protest against colonial rule.

“Zaman tu, patik banyak kena belajar. Bahasa baru, care idup baru. Mulanya musing sikit. Maklumlah, patik ni orang pasir. Oooofff. Tapi nok kate idup patik susoh dok. Bila patik masuk

keluarge baru, patik tengok dalam umoh, macam istana. Ramainya cucu ketua umoh tu! Ada tukang masok – baik orang dia – dia ajor patik masok, jaga umoh, semua lah! Baik-baik belaka. Lepas kerja, mereka ajok patik main. Macam macam main kita semua. Masok masok, guli guli. Ya masa kecil-kecil di Mekah, main tutup mata, cari orang. Kalau jatuh, jatuhlah! Budak-budak di Mekah bermain macam budak-budak di sini juga.

“Patik kerja kuat. Patik buat apa yang disuruh. Semua untuk patik dapat lupakan hidup patik dulu. Oh, Ku Dina. Bila matahari terbit kat kampung patik dulu, macam masuk syurga, cantik. Bila dah petang tu, macam alam lain.”

(During that period, I had to learn a lot. A new language, a new lifestyle. It was a bit confusing. What to do—I am a “sand people” [coming from a desert area]. Oooofff. But I am not saying my life was difficult. When I joined this family, I was surprised by the house—it is like a palace. The family’s head has so many grandchildren! There was this cook – they were nice – they taught us how to cook, look after the house, everything! Everything was fine. After work, they would invite me to join their games. We played all sorts of games. Cooking, marbles. When I was a child in Mecca, we used to play hide and seek. We fell all the time! Children in Mecca play games like the children here do.

I worked really hard. I did everything I was asked to do. I did everything to forget my past life. Oh, Ku Dina. When the sun rose in my old village, it looked like paradise. When the sun set, it was as if you have entered a different realm.”)

Ya was not the only young child to work for the family. Safar, Berserah and one young boy who remains unnamed joined her and they became fast friends. According to my cousin and late grandaunt Ku Ah, Safar had a tragic story.

Beyond Servitude

Safar was walking in the desert alone, aways from her home when she noticed something. Safar saw a comb of bananas, which appeared out of the blue, all yellow and ripe, on the sand. She looked at it curiously. Prior to this, her sister and friends had been taken away by slave traders. Her mother and father cried and called to the gods to get them back.

The bananas enticed Safar. Then, the bananas moved – probably tied to a string – and the young girl followed it. In an instant, a sack was thrown over her head and she was taken away.

In her adult years, she had expressed great regret that she had not stayed home.

Then there is the story Ya whispered to me, of how some of the young boys who had gone out to play in the desert found a trail of flowers not native to their country. Like all young people, curiosity won out and they met their fate.

It was when they arrived in Malaya that they recognised the flower: bunga mawar Melayu (Malay rose). That was the story I was told.

Despite the fact that they had become a part of the family and the local landscape, they were still enslaved people. Their truths and memories would always be disputed and silenced by their masters and their descendants.

In the time we undertook this research project, we have learned one thing: truths were manufactured to protect reputation at the cost of the innocent.

We found documents from the British Archives that reveal the base character of certain personalities, which led to rigorous discussion. Whose truth are we to show in the would-be documentary?

In two emails sent to me by my late cousin Tengku Ismail Su, the songket maker, dated 21 September 2007 and 14 April 2008, he wrote: 

Ya recalled as it was yesterday. “I was playing games with my elder sisters and friends further away my house when a band of Arab slave traders raided our village”. This happened so sudden we were caught by surprised with those noises of gun fire really stunt us which hamper our movement of escaping from the life of slavery. We were rounded up and handcuffed, forced to walk for nearly a week to the nearest coast, were then transferred into a dawf crudely made Arab wooden boat to a slave trading collecting centre near the port of Aden at the tip of Arabian Peninsula.   

I came from a noble tribe my father a handsome and tall, a village chieftain. Our village is somewhere between the border of Ethiopia and Somali the horn of Africa. Being captured and handcuffed is a terrible ordeal for us. We were first auctioned at a slave market and bought by an Arab slave merchant, then taken by camel across vast desert to Jeddah slave market. With my exotic beauty was spotted by the head Nubian eunuch from the household of the Sheriff Hussein. Luck is on my side I and my parents and sisters were bought into this illustrious family the descended of Prophet Muhammad, the Guardian of the two Holy Cities of Mecca and Medina. The slave merchant make a handsome profit from us, it is always a custom for them to take a great care of their newly captured slave from being sexually abused such rape in order to fetch a good price. I was presented as a gift to the ex-Sultan Muhammad who was at that time a state guest of the Sheriff Hussein. Unlike other Nubian slaves bought by your grandmother and Tengku Maimunah directly from trader”

He continued, “Ya traced and managed to find her family again in 1935 during ex-Sultan Muhammad second pilgrimages to Mecca. She was welcome to go back to her family but she prefers to be with her master handsome prince living in Singapore and country palace of Gong Kapas in the back water of Terengganu Sultanate.”

“Mariam or Ya affectionate know in the family quiet passed away at the age of 85 years old in rundown Istana Gong Kapas where her handsome Sultan passed away 50 years ago but her linger as it was yesterday. When ever I saw her story of her life unfold of tragic to romantic love.”

The email above has been replicated verbatim from the email.

Slave Trade

Before we begin Ya’s story, we need to tell you that Ya and her friends are not the type of slaves that we have known.

For many of us, slavery belonged to the White, Western world, especially in America, where Africans were taken from their homes to work on American and Caribbean plantations. The story we wish to tell is not Alex Haley’s Roots: The Saga of An American Family.

However, the transatlantic slave trade has dominated public imagination, knowledge and even academia. Slavery, in all its varieties and forms, has been in existence since antiquity. It seems perplexing, but, ever since, something has always compelled human beings to take each other into forced captivity. It has been a human practice since time immemorial.

This is not an attempt to justify it—nor is it necessary to provide moral justification for this abhorrent practice. To us, it is important to unpack and understand the nuances of how slavery was different in different contexts.

A loaded term, “slavery” carries so much weight and has many definitions, depending on time period, geography and perspective.

In colonial times, the Portuguese had the honour of being the first modern human traffickers, trading in hundreds of thousands of humans from the west coast of Africa for their plantations and colonies in the New World.

Such a history has not been easy to face, and Portugal has, for the most part, avoided acknowledging its “pioneering role” in establishing and participating in the transatlantic slave trade that lasted for about four centuries. Only in 2021 did Portugal install a public monument called the Memorial-Homage to the Victims of Slavery.

The lucrative trade soon saw the participation of the British, the Dutch and the Spanish. Local agents were also involved, bartering their own people for profit.Indeed, even before the arrival of Europeans, there was already an African slave trade.

For centuries, small kingdoms and large empires existed in West and Central Africa, divided along cultural and ethnic lines. Frequent conflicts led to captives who became part of the local trade system, which formed the basis for the transatlantic slave trade.

War for Profit, Profit from War

The grand ancient civilisations of Egypt, Mesopotamia, Rome, Greece and Persia had slave classes. Slaves were usually taken from enemy nations, lower classes, rural areas or even kidnapped from different lands. Some were taken to pay off debts, but most were trafficked into forced labour.

From these ancient times, Roman gladiators who were often slaves come to mind—glamorous (and glistening) fighters combatting for entertainment, their freedom and, ultimately, to return home. In reality, however, many slaves – and their families – lived, worked and died in captivity, some under hard circumstances working in construction or hard labour.

Slavery is complex—Ya and friends came to work as house servants and then were absorbed into the Malay families who took them in, eventually becoming one of them.

Ya, in fact, settled in the royal household of Sultan Muhammad II of Terengganu. She and her friends were known to be Muslims, and when they moved to Terengganu, in some ways, they masuk Melayu.

The Arab-Muslim slave trade has long been in existence, especially from Africa. Black Africans were the earliest type of slave known to Arabs. One of them, Bilal, who became the first muezzin, was an Abyssinian who was owned and freed by Abu Bakr, Prophet Muhammad’s father-in-law.

With the advent of Islam came the Arab conquests, which saw the spread of the Muslim-Arab armies to different parts of the region, from Persia to North Africa. Once they conquered the Sahara, Arab merchants bought Black Africans to be traded.

While Islam taught tolerance and the importance of knowing each other despite differences of clan and skin colour, Arabs subjugated Black Africans into slavery anyway.

Africans who were brought into slavery were sometimes bought, taken or born into it. Some were born out of unions between African mothers and Arab fathers. Some were given their freedom but mostly became Arabised and were converted to Islam. They emulated Arab language and culture and, while being subject to prejudice by elite Arabs, did contribute to medieval Islamic society.

The locals in Terengganu called Ya and her friends hamba habshi, possibly because they came from Madinah and Mecca. The Metropolitan Museum of Art explained that “… Habshi is the Arabic term for Abyssian, a nationality known today as Ethiopian. This term is used to describe the Africans who came to live in India, arriving as merchants and fishermen as well as slaves. Sidi (‘my lord’) is another Arabic term to identify the same group, but connotes an elevated status.”

Ya did tell me that her origins were from Ethiopia, which coincides with the definition above. However, she was seen as a local Meccan, as her family had settled in Mecca.

At that time, they were regarded as locals but of African origin. Identity was fluid before and now: people move to seek work and some fortune and integrate into the local landscape. (Another question that we will address in the future: what is truth and memory?)

We were told that her aunt had spoken to her parents about a good future and brought her to meet the new family. She stayed with the family and their descendants until the end of her life.

At least, that was what we were told.

—

When I first met Ya in 1996, at the entrance of the house she lived in, she had a cloth/towel on her head. Many years later, my third cousin Ku Mei and third aunt – the now deceased Tengku Halipah, whom we called Bonda Ku Ah – told me that when hamba habshi arrived in Terengganu, they took to the cloth and various versions of the selendang because they felt embarrassed by their hair. It had nothing to do with religion. I was told that one or two of them resorted to hanging durian fruit from their hair in a bid to straighten it.

Most of them took to living quietly and in the shadows, even if they were popular with the locals, because they knew they looked different. Their skin was darker. They were tall too. Ya and another lived with their adoptive families, while the others lived and worked in the royal fortress—Dalam Kota Istana Maziah.

The cursory Malay(sian) reader may find this as positive ammunition for populism: Ya and friends had assimilated into this new, strange society, where Islam and Malayness were upheld, but when the team and I heard this, it broke our hearts. They were so young then – they had not even reached puberty when they reached Singapore and Terengganu – and had to figure  out assimilation as well as acculturation on their own. That they had this awareness of how different they were from the new country they lived and died in is heartbreaking.

When we met in 2006, Ya asked me if I was the writer-granddaughter of my grandparents, and whether I knew who she really was. When I offered that I thought she was a tall Indian woman, she laughed.

“Patik dulu… hamba. hamba habshi.  Pelawok budok ni sunggoh. Patik bukang orang India. Dari Mesir! Afrika!” Ya remarked. (I was… hamba. Hamba habshi. You are such a joker! I’m not Indian. I’m from Egypt! Africa!”).

What struck me when we conversed were two things: she spoke fluently in the Terengganu dialect and in Bahasa Istana (the palace language). I then called out for my mother, who had entered the kitchen, and motioned for her to join us.

While my mother spoke to the other inhabitants of the house, Ya and I stayed in the back. I was entranced by her: she was tall, lanky and most animated. She told me I had to write a film about her life—she loved films and wanted to be an actress. She made me promise in the back of the kitchen – an amanah – to tell her story to the world.

She stood up, waving her arms in the air, with her sleeves rolled back to her elbows. Her arms were the colour of dark chocolate and the skin was almost parchment-like, with deep creases I fancied as details of life. Age. I was struck by the fairness of her palms and said so. She smiled and said it was because she took wudhu (ablution) all the time.

“Ye lah. Patik kuak semayang. Ni kalu ambik wuduk sokmo, kulit ceroh. Same dengan selawat. Baca banyok banyok kali pah tu usap muka. [Ber]seri.” (Of course. I pray all the time. This is what happens if you always take ablution: your skin will shine. Same with reciting salawat. Do that a lot and then rub your face. It would glow).

This is how Ya sounded. This is a snippet from an hour-long audio.

Enslavement in Malay Society

Understanding the lives of slaves within the royal household encompasses several key elements. Firstly, it requires contextualising the practice of slavery within the Malay world, considering its religious, cultural and class dimensions. Secondly, tracing the movement of slaves from their places of origin to their destinations is essential for gaining insight into their experiences. Finally, it is important to consider the nuances of their lives within the domestic sphere, where strong familial ties often played a significant role.

In the Malay world, slavery was practiced, but its definition and concept differ from Western understanding. Slavery in Southeast Asia (including in the Malay world) is fascinating to observe. This is because of the interaction between various concepts of slavery, such as Islam, Hinduism, Chinese, European and local beliefs.

The institution of slavery was a societal practice that had been observed in the region since the time of the Malacca Sultanate. Slaves symbolised the influence and wealth of a nobleman during that era. The more slaves a nobleman owned, the higher his status in society and the stronger his economic position.

For example, Tun Mutahir owned so many slaves that he himself did not recognise the slaves he acquired. This indicates the vast wealth he obtained, surpassing even the wealth of Sultan Mahmud Syah of Malacca. Occupying the lowest stratum of society, they could not act according to their own desires because they were controlled by rules and orders determined by their owners (masters).

However, slavery in the context of the Malay world is not solely seen in terms of economics and slaves as property. Practices resembling slavery in the Malay world are more focused on the concept of indebtedness.

The concept of indebtedness in the Malay world extends beyond monetary debt. According to Gullick, the concept of indebtedness in the Malay world encompasses economic interests. “It is clear… that debt-bondage, although in the form of an economic institution, was in substance a very mixed complex of several elements. The Chief acquired and retained bondsmen as a means of augmenting his power and prestige. The bondsman might expect the creditor to provide him with a wife….”

For Malay royalty and aristocrats, the institution of slavery played a role in contributing labour to the economy and granting status to their masters.

Slaves can be divided into three main groups: hamba raja (royal slaves), hamba hutang (debt-slaves) and hamba abdi (abdi slaves).

Originally, hamba raja were disobedient individuals such as prisoners of war or convicts who committed crimes but were successfully apprehended and later pardoned by the raja. The status of hamba raja is higher compared to other slaves. This group receives special legal status compared to other slaves. Fasal Ke-lapan dalam Undang-undang Melaka states that the law for killing hamba raja should be reverted back to the killer.

They receive protection from the government and are also known as biduanda, dayang-dayang, beti-beti, and perwara (female slaves). Hamba raja and their descendants perpetually served their royal masters.

There is more, but we will continue in the next few chapters of this story.

The GKC Collective is seeking funds for the Malaysia leg of research. Please contact us at gongkapaspictures@gmail.com

Promoted Content

GK Pictures is a collective of researchers and creators who wish to bring Ya’s story to life. We are seeking support and funds for research that will take the team around the country, Europe and the Middle East prior to production. You may contact us at gongkapaspictures@gmail.com.

Introduction

In the tome Terengganu Darul Iman 1881-1936, written by Muhammad Yusoff Hashim, he wrote:

                Bersuka-sukaan di sana ia

                dua tiga orang matinya sahaya

                dibeli pula yang maha mulia

                beberapa cariat muda belia.

                Kulitnya hitam warna gelat

                berkilat pandang seperti shakhalat

                kedua mata putihnya bulat

                rambut seperti di sarang ulat.

                Gemar melihat mahkota negeri

                kulitnya hitam tiada berperi

                diajar pelayan di dalam qasri

                sangat dikasih muda bestari.

                Tiadalah hamba memanjangkan cerita

                di sana tidak lama sang nata

                lepas mengambil haji yang nyata

                kembalilah ia semua serta.

                Di negeri Terengganu tempat sedia

                menderulah datang hamba dan sahaya

                serta kaum kerabat dia

                mengunjungi datang di tanah bahagia.

Hashim wrote about the arrival of dark-skinned slaves, who aroused the curiosity and later acceptance from Terengganu locals. Was this just a story, or were there bondsmen from the Middle East and Africa who lived in the state?

–

When I was a child, my holidays in Gong Kapas, Terengganu, were marked by imaginary adventures or passive curiosity of the neighbourhood. I would stay with my grandparents and their youngest children – and of course my mother – while my father worked abroad. As I grew older, any holiday or reason to go back to Terengganu would see us there.

At that time, in the 1970s and 80s, Gong Kapas was green and lush. My late grandparents’ home was covered with mango and rambutan trees, and behind the house was a wall with an opening to the house behind us. Cats and kittens scampered about. From time to time, goats sauntered in and out of the compound. My late grandmother employed quite a number of maids and help who cooked, massaged, and observed the goings-on in the house. The people from the back of the house trooped into Toknda’s house too to exchange gossip, news and – of course – food.

I was quite young that time, but I was always at the back of the house, because the cats and food were there. My babysitter and the maids would congregate to talk about their men and ghosts. Occasionally, a tall, dark-skinned woman would pop her head in, speak softly, and leave. We never spoke. But I remembered that my cousin, Nadia, would go over to the house behind; she was friendly with the tall lady. That was all I knew of her.

—

By 2006, I was in my mid-20s. I visited Terengganu a lot while my grandparents were still alive. One evening, I was in the garden – which was now a rather strange rock garden – and went inside for a drink. That was when I saw the tall lady, waving at me from outside her window, motioning to me to meet her. I left the kitchen to meet her at the back entrance of her home, thinking throughout the whole process about how very tall she was.

She asked me if I was the grandchild of (now deceased) Tengku Asmak, who was a writer. I nodded.

She asked me to come into her house. In her spare kitchen, she asked me if I knew who and what she was. I shook my head. I only knew that she was called Ya and I assumed she was a very tall Indian Muslim.

She smiled and told me she was an African slave, who came from Mecca.

Terengganu in Brief

To understand Terengganu is to understand its history, which scholars such as the abovementioned Yusoff Hashim have explored in detail.

In his book Terengganu Darul Iman: Tradisi Pensejarahan Malaysia, he describes Terengganu’s geographical challenges that include strong north-east monsoon winds, rough seas and annual floods. These natural conditions shaped the livelihoods of its people, with fishing, skilled labour and farming being the primary occupations. In 1921, the population stood at 66,135, increasing to 95,800 by 1931, with Terengganu town housing around 12,453 residents.

The Terengganu Sultanate traces its origins back to the 18^th century, with 17 sultans ruling since its inception. Mubin Sheppard (1949) details its founding, linking it to Johor’s Bendahara dynasty. In 1718, Sultan Abdul Jalil of Johor was exiled by Raja Kechil, who claimed descent from Malacca’s Sultan Mahmud Mangkat Dijulang. Sultan Abdul Jalil took refuge in Terengganu but was assassinated in 1721. His son, Tengku Sulaiman, allied with Bugis warrior Daeng Perani to reclaim Johor. According to Tuhfat Al-Nafis, Sultan Sulaiman, with Bugis support, appointed his uncle, Tun Zainal Abidin, as Terengganu’s first sultan in 1725.

Patani tradition states that he fled to Patani after his adoptive father, Wan Derahman, was wrongly executed and was sheltered by the ruling Queen Nang Chayam. During Sultan Abdul Jalil’s visit to Patani, an agreement was made to divide Johor’s territories, with Terengganu assigned to Tun Zainal Abidin. After Abdul Jalil’s death, Patani honoured the deal, sending Tun Zainal Abidin and 80 Patani families to Terengganu, where he was installed as sultan. He further strengthened ties by marrying the queen’s cousin, Che Puan Besar. The settlement, Kampong Patani, still exists today.

One of the most well-known rulers was Sultan Zainal Abidin III who ruled from 1881 to 1918. His reign marked Terengganu’s transition from a nominal vassal of Siam to an Unfederated Malay State under British protection. He was known for his charisma, personal adherence to Islamic law and efforts to modernise Terengganu. Breaking from isolationist policies, he embraced reforms and welcomed foreigners. He maintained Terengganu’s independence by showcasing historical manuscripts proving sovereignty and resisting British interference. With the support of religious leader Tok Ku Sayyid Paloh and noble Haji Ngah Muhammad, he opposed colonial control.

Despite his efforts, the 1909 British-Siamese Agreement was signed without Terengganu’s knowledge, placing the state under British influence. Sultan Zainal Abidin III countered by introducing Itqan al-Muluk (Terengganu State Constitution) in 1911, ensuring leadership followed Quranic principles and upheld Malay-Islamic identity. He passed away on 26 November 1918 at the age of 54, deeply mourned by his people.

His successor, Sultan Muhammad Shah II, was born on 1 May 1889 in Kuala Terengganu to Cik Khalthum binti Haji Daud, also known as Cik Istana. His reign was short-lived due to British pressure. The 1918 Bucknill Commission investigated his rule, citing mismanagement, particularly in land and mining concessions. British officials deemed him illiterate and temperamental, justifying their intervention. In 1919, he was forced to accept a British Adviser, officially integrating Terengganu into the British Empire. Struggling under colonial oversight, he abdicated after 18 months in favour of his brother, Sultan Sulaiman Badrul Alam Syah, to take control.

Sultan Sulaiman’s rule (1920–1942) saw Terengganu fall further under British control. British-backed officials attempted but failed to install Tengku Besar Mahmud, a prince of full royal blood (meaning both his parents were of royal descent), as sultan. His reign was marked by natural disasters, including the devastating 1926–1927 floods, and peasant uprisings led by Haji Abdul Rahman Limbong against British taxation policies. The Japanese invasion in 1941 worsened conditions – he died in 1942. His son, Sultan Ali, was later dethroned in 1945 due to a series of alleged misconducts – from holding wild parties, associating with unsavory women, to being pro-Japanese – and was replaced by his uncle, Sultan Ismail Nasiruddin.

The early 20^th century was a turbulent period in Terengganu’s history, marked by frequent shifts in power. Foreign pressures from British colonial administrators and Thailand played a significant role in shaping the decisions of Terengganu’s rulers. The legacy of Sultan Zainal Abidin III endured, as three of his sons became sultans, each navigating the challenges of British colonisation and governance. The evolution of Terengganu from an independent sultanate to a British protectorate, and eventually a part of Malaysia, was deeply influenced by the strength, or weakness, of its rulers. Ultimately, Terengganu’s history is inseparable from the story of its sultans, whose leadership defined its fate.

The Slave Trade in the Malay World: A Global Context

The story of slavery in the Malay world is a truly global one. It is one that can be told alongside the story of how trade and ideas came from the Middle East to the people of Southeast Asia. It is a tale of intricate networks, of characters from all walks of life, told within a wide context that sees the overlapping of religion, local and international geopolitics and economics.

By looking at slavery in a Malay(sian) context, we gain insight into a new history, one that brings together themes that are familiar to us. We are talking about European imperialism, cosmopolitanism, trade networks, Islam, Malay identity and even Malay power. It also involved non-Europeans and local traders who were heavily involved in the trade of slaves, namely from East Africa.

For decades, scholarship on slavery has mainly concentrated on the Atlantic trade. In recent years, however, scholars are looking at other geographical contexts for slavery, especially eastwards, from East Africa, through the Middle East, down the Indian Ocean and to the Malay Archipelago.

The Indian Ocean has emerged as a new context of study. This mass body of ocean has been a witness to the movements of peoples and goods, facilitating travel, trade and even colonialism. Scholars such as Amal Ghazal and Fahad Bishara have contributed to this field by examining the trade networks that connected various points along the Indian Ocean, from Zanzibar to the Indian continent. Slavery scholars are also beginning to look at this context to broaden the global scope of slavery’s history.

The demand for slave labour from East Africa stemmed from the expansion of European-controlled plantations in the 18^th century. In the French-held Mascarenes islands (the group of islands of which Mauritius belongs to), slaves from the East African coast were trafficked to the sugar plantations there. Plantations owned by Arab Muslims growing cloves and dates in the East African islands of Zanzibar and Pemba in the Persian Gulf region also increased the demand for slaves. Demand increased even further with the growing dominance of the British in the region who wanted to maintain their imperial control by propping up slave dependent economies. Slaves did not only appear on plantations, but also in other places too, from factories to the household.

When the European powers arrived, they took slaves from the eastern part of Dutch East Indies (Indonesia) and southern India as a labour force for their newly conquered and established cities in Asia. The Dutch relied extensively on the populations of Batavia to work on building sites or warehouses. Some of them were also owned property of Dutch citizens.

The African slave trade started in the 15^th century, when European powers expanded their lands in the Americas. They traded with local African leaders along the Western coast of Africa, gaining slaves to be brought across the Atlantic to work on European-owned plantations in the Atlantic coast of the Americas and on the Caribbean islands. However, it did not take long until the Europeans started trading slaves from the eastern coast of Africa eastwards for their possessions in the Indian Ocean.

For instance, the Portuguese were the first to bring slaves from Mozambique and Madagascar over to South Asia. Hundreds of thousands of Africans were taken and forcibly resettled on this route, as claimed by Shihan de Silva Jayasuriya. Termed Afro-Asian communities in India, they can be found in Gujarat and Karnataka, the two coastal states facing the eastern coast of Africa.

However, slavery in Southeast Asia cannot only be understood within the context of European imperialism. As noted by Anthony Reid, there was a “fluid spectrum” and conditions of bondage. He pointed out the ambiguous, if contradictory, position of slave – both as a property and person – as part of the household but also an outsider. In the Southeast Asian region, the concept of bondsmen, as opposed to slaves as property, had been in existence for centuries. In the Angkor court, slaves would be taken from less fixed populations, such as fishermen, cultivators and hunter-gatherers.

Furthermore, when examining slavery in Southeast Asia, it is also important to consider the role played by Islam. Stephanie Cronin has urged to move away from viewing slavery within a Eurocentric lens and to understand the institution of slavery within a religious-ideological framework. Much of how Islam and slavery is understood has been through a post-abolition Western discourse that is orientalist and othering in its approach.

In the Middle East, slavery had been in existence since ancient times. The arrival of Islam provided a new legal framework for slavery, but the practice did not die out. While domestic slaves and such were commonplace in the Muslim world, so too was the rise of elite slaves, who were taken by Islamic leaders to hold high positions in the government and military. In some cases, such as the Mamluks in Egypt, they even went on to overthrow their leaders and rule.

Muslim traders had been coming to the Malay lands along tried and tested routes through the Indian Ocean, even before the arrival of the Europeans. They were also active in the trade of slaves from East Africa. These African slaves who were brought over to Southeast Asia lived in a more open slave society, as compared to their Atlantic counterparts. Scholars such as Titas Chakraborty and Matthias van Rossum have urged the need to emphasise the local character of “Asian” slaveries. Many married into the local population and assimilated relatively well into the local population. Islamic law stipulated for fair treatment for slaves, disallowing exploitation, cruelty and prostitution. They were entitled to a formal contract and had the right to access legal aid and protection. Arab leaders took slaves from a variety of communities, including Christians in the Balkans and Africans. In Southeast Asia, local laws, from imperial Chinese ordinances to laws of the Melaka sultanate covered the rights of slaves.

Through studying the presence of African slaves in Southeast Asia, we thus gain insight into a long history that encompasses different geographic spaces that are united by trade, networks and religion across the Indian Ocean.

Introduction

I was anxiously waiting in a virtual lobby, deep, soothing breaths punctuating my carefully rehearsed lines. The camera flicked on—suddenly, the interviewer’s greeting launched our meeting into motion.

This was not my first interview, nor was it my first virtual one either. It took place during my second week of pantang (confinement), the centuries-old Malay postpartum ritual that expects a new mother to rest and recover. 

When I became pregnant for the first time, I knew nothing could prepare me for the true realities of motherhood. Pregnancy books, Reddit forums, YouTube tutorials—I had consumed them all. 

In spite of this, I still found myself unprepared. The many late nights, the gargantuan to-do list necessary to keep a little human alive and the constant negotiations with my husband about who does what—my introduction to motherhood was challenging to say the least.

At the same time, I was still trying to signal to myself (and admittedly those around me) that I was still me: still ambitious and capable of having it all. Agreeing to a promotion interview two weeks postpartum was not just a career move but also an attempt to regain some sense of self.

But now, 3.5 years into my motherhood journey, I am finding the very notion of “having it all” just as extreme as having to choose between raising a family and a thriving career. 

Of #GirlBosses and #Tradwives

This desire to “have it all” is symptomatic of social media rendering everything, no matter the topic, as an over-the-top performance rather than an accurate depiction of reality. 

In this attention economy, motherhood – and to a larger extent portrayals of the modern woman – is reduced to a mere label that never takes into account the messy nuances of actual lived experience. 

Take, for example, the millennial concept of the “Girl Boss”. While the Girl Boss era is largely said to have seen its demise, there was a time many millennial women (myself included) sought to achieve this coveted status. It was an alluring ideal—who would not want to #slay in the corporate arena whilst building a seven-figure bank account and do so without relying on a man?

But while the Girl Boss’s selfies in Singapore Airlines first-class cabin are enviable, I cannot help but think of the hard reality of achieving this level of success and question the immense personal price tag that such a lifestyle affords.

On the flip side, the rise of the “tradwife” is said to be a direct counter to the “bossbabe” narrative. Where a bossbabe strives for the absolute pinnacle of her ambitions, a tradwife seemingly wants nothing more than to fulfil her husband’s wants and desires, take care of the home all whilst raising happy, healthy children.

Those that oppose this movement argue that it fetishizes a woman’s complete and total subservience to a man. However, a question then rises: If a woman, out of her own free will, willingly chooses to put her family’s needs above her own, why is this act deemed less empowering than if she were to pursue her ambitions outside the family home?

This again demonstrates how problematic such over-the-top social media performances of gender roles can be. 

Personally for me, while I do think there could be no occupation more noble than taking care of my family, I do not believe it can only come at the expense of my personal goals and dreams outside of being a wife and mother. 

I also feel that these largely Western ideas fall short within a Malaysian context, where family structures and domestic help are more common. While having such a robust support system in place certainly makes “having it all” more attainable, it does not make it any less challenging. 

Motherhood IRL

The prevalence of such extreme narratives on social media and the wider media in general has also impacted the perception of modern motherhood.

While there are many who strive to share a more balanced and normalized perspective, the dominating narrative to any discourse around motherhood – and parenting more broadly – seems to be overwhelmingly negative.

Current conversations often highlight the more challenging aspects of motherhood. Oftentimes, modern motherhood is depicted as an exhausting, thankless job whereby the mother in question derives absolutely no joy and is just miserable. 

While I do wonder if the current negative sentiment towards having kids is a direct result of the complex cultural climate we are living in, I cannot help but question my own role in perpetuating these negative stereotypes.

I think back to when I had just returned from maternity leave. I was chatting with a newly married colleague when she asked if she should have kids, to which I jokingly responded, “No, absolutely not”.

Having experienced motherhood for myself, however, I realized that the many challenges that come with raising a child is only half the picture. Though my household is a far cry from Maria Von Trapp and her kids, it is not all doom and gloom either. 

Permission to Pivot

I did not get that job promotion. Although I was disappointed, there was a part of me that felt immense relief. 

Perhaps it was because I had freed myself of the self-imposed expectation of having it all. But by not getting that promotion, it was as if I had given myself permission to take a back seat on my career and focus on raising my child instead. 

I was content with this slower pace and finding a rhythm that worked for me. But it was in these quiet moments that I gained the mental space to reassess and through introspection, a new ambition had quietly taken hold.

Witnessing the startling speed with which my daughter changed from a cute, squishy blob to a sassy strong-spirited toddler, I gained a completely new appreciation of time and just how quickly things change. 

This new perspective made me realize that although I still had ambitions to further my career, I simply did not want to miss out on my child growing up either. But this meant building something of my own, which was ironic seeing as how I had never harboured any entrepreneurial dreams before becoming a mother.

But it was not just the perceived flexibility that came with such endeavours, although that was certainly appealing. It was about creating something that could coexist and thrive with my newfound motherhood.

For the first time, I was not chasing some external definition of having it all. I was redefining what that actually meant for myself. 

Balance: Making it Make Sense (for Me)

Living in Kuala Lumpur, I have the good fortune of having family support and the capacity to hire paid help. While I do not take these luxuries for granted, there is still somewhat of a balancing act that is required. 

For me, this means navigating the ebb and flow of control, a response that is usually elicited by a well-meaning elder who insists on doing things their way. However, by the same token, being very conscious of not wanting to overburden my family, who are already giving so much of their time.

The other irony in all of this is that, even though having help relieves the physical load of childcare, it does not eliminate the emotional burden.

On days when I am cooped up in my study chasing a deadline and my daughter calls out from the other side wanting to play, the mom-guilt hits especially hard. I question whether in pursuing a future that will grow alongside my role as mother, I was missing out on the precious and fleeting moments of the present. 

But it is in grappling with these internal battles that I realized that having it all was not about seeking more help as I hustled harder: It was becoming more about prioritizing what truly mattered. For me, what truly matters is setting a good example for my daughter and showing that you could have it all –just not all at once. 

Final Thoughts

Three years from that interview, I am still learning to embrace motherhood in all its beautiful, messy glory. There are challenging days and there are days I feel so grateful to be the actual centre of my little person’s universe.

I used to think that having all the help and support meant I could push harder, do more, and be more. But what motherhood has so acutely crystallized is that the smaller wins each and every day count for something too.

But what is perhaps the greatest lesson I have learned since becoming a mother is that there really is no one-size-fits-all approach. Beyond the carefully curated extremes on social media, creating my own path forward is the most powerful example I can set for my daughter.

Society’s Fascination with Infidelity

Few themes grip the Indonesian audience like tales of infidelity. In a culture steeped in conservative values where “family comes first”, stories of spousal betrayal become both entertaining and, yet, rather unsettling.

Recently, adultery-themed films often draw inspiration from viral, supposedly real-life stories on social media platforms like TikTok, X and Facebook, feeding the public’s insatiable appetite for drama.

Indeed, roughly 60% of Indonesians enjoy infidelity dramas, possibly drawn by the mix of both their relatability – hitting too close to home – and utterly bizarre storylines. These films spark a whirlwind of reactions, from moral outrage and seething disdain for the villains to netizens candidly recounting their own experiences.

Following the success of Layangan Putus (The Broken Kite), an infidelity drama adapted from a viral Facebook post, Ipar adalah Maut (The In-law is Death) entered the scene in June 2024, with subsequent streaming on Netflix earlier this November.

When Family Lines Blur

Directed by Hanung Bramantyo, Ipar adalah Maut tells a story about the unraveling marriage of Aris (Deva Mahenra) and Nisa (Michelle Ziudith) following the former’s affair with the latter’s younger sister, Rani (Devina Karamoy). Based on a viral TikTok story, this film forces a reckon with familial boundaries in Indonesia, reigniting discussions on religion, morality and trust.

The film’s provocative title borrows from the Islamic hadith that discourages Muslims from spending time alone with non-mahram (a person with whom marriage is allowed), further warning the dangers of unchecked relationships between the in-laws.

At the start, the audience is introduced to Aris and Nisa’s seemingly perfect relationship. Aris is portrayed as a family man: a religious figure, a supportive husband and a present father. Finances do not seem to be an issue for the family. The couple and their daughter settle in a nice home, while Nisa is running a successful business.

Before long, Ipar adalah Maut pivots to its central conflict, a turning point when Nisa and Rani’s mother suggests that the younger sister, Rani, should move into the couple’s home.

The intention behind this arrangement seems benign: Rani needs a safe place to stay near her university, where, conveniently, Aris also teaches. The mother’s preference for Rani to stay with the couple and their willingness to take her in speak to the deeply rooted collectivist values that have shaped Indonesian family dynamics.

In one scene, Nisa hesitates over the arrangement but soon feels the sense of responsibility to care for her sister, even though Rani, as an adult, should ideally be independent. This scene shows the clash between collectivism and individualism, the dilemma between prioritizing one’s interests and fulfilling familial duties.

As the film progresses, the lines between nuclear and extended families blur, with the latter taking on familial responsibility. This stands in contrast to the current shift in the Indonesian family structure: Younger Indonesians are gradually moving away from an extended family to a nuclear one, a change influenced in part by modernization.

In the past, it was more common for Indonesians to live with or nearby their in-laws, creating a support system where family would be there when needed. Today, however, it has become increasingly common and socially acceptable for nuclear families to live independently, often away from their extended families.

Furthermore, religion also upholds collectivist values, with a strong emphasis on selflessness and altruism. In the film, Aris is initially portrayed as a religious character. His actions are driven by his sense of duty towards his family and God.

The audience’s first impression of Aris is built upon the common belief that a religious and responsible husband is not a cheater—that these qualities are mutually exclusive. Ironically, it is precisely these virtues that likely draw Rani to him, a picture-perfect husband she does not have but profoundly desires.

One of the ways religion may safeguard oneself from infidelity is by curbing behaviors that could lead to full-blown infidelity. In the aforementioned hadith, Islam sets clear marital boundaries to avoid temptation and “minor” transgressions, both of which could escalate into something more serious.

Here, the discrepancy between Indonesia’s collectivist values and the above hadith becomes clear. The movie’s married couple are caught between two principles.

On the one hand, their cultural leanings prioritize charity to family, i.e. helping Rani by offering her a place to stay. On the other hand, the hadith warns against such arrangements, implying they are forbidden. However, it is possible that the couple are unaware of the hadith before making that decision.

Just as the hadith warns, multiple scenes show that several boundaries were crossed long before the full-blown affair begins. For instance, Aris and Rani drive to the university together in the same car without Nisa. There are also moments when Aris and Rani are left alone in the house, further compromising the boundaries that the hadith seeks to protect.

The plot advances further when Aris intervenes to help Rani when she was being harassed by male students. This pivotal moment enables Rani’s feelings for Aris to intensify, shifting from innocent admiration to something more romantic and intense.

Why the Forbidden Beckons

There is a prevailing assumption that people in happy relationship are less likely to cheat. Nevertheless, that is no guarantee against infidelity. There are many explanations for this, including uncontrollable temptations, a lack of connection, or simply boredom.

Ipar adalah Maut does not explicitly explain but rather implies, as the pre-affair Aris’ character is too perfect to be true. We are left wondering what his flaws are or what hidden temptations he harbors. As the film unfolds, it becomes clear that he is addicted to this forbidden relationship.

Meanwhile, Rani has grown from a sweet child into an extremely attractive young woman, a visual that probably tempts Aris in the first place.

The setup is expected and familiar – Aris and Rani share a rather intimate moment late at night when Rani, typically modest and demure, is found without her hijab and with a more revealing outfit. It is a defining moment where a split-second attraction blossoms into a destructive force.

This brings us to the hypothetical realm: Could strict religious practice become the very thing that feeds the desire to break them? If Rani were a secular woman who is not a hijabi/covered in the first place, and if Aris were used to seeing her in more revealing outfits, would it reduce Aris’ curiosity and prevent any temptation from taking place?

This allure of forbidden love is proven to be hard to resist. Its allure can partially be explained by the psychological concept of “reactance”. It occurs when individuals experience discomfort as a consequence of perceived restrictions in their autonomy, subsequently attempting to restore their freedom by rebelling against those constraints. In Ipar adalah Maut, societal and cultural taboos could have heightened this forbidden attraction.

Deeper Betrayals and the Fallout

Guilt and shame, due to their religious beliefs, take root early in both Aris and Rani’s minds. Yet, the more guilt they feel, the stronger their reckless abandon attitude grows. Both of them may feel that they are too deep in their sins to turn back. Thus, they carry on with the affair. Unsurprisingly, they become reckless in keeping the secret too, with a few scenes highlighting Nisa’s suspicions.

This eventually becomes a tangled web of deceit as the cheaters craft an elaborate scheme to throw Nisa off. Here, Aris’ so-called selflessness reveals itself as nothing more than pure selfishness.

What is most unsettling is how normal this affair feels to the cheaters. Perhaps it is a strange sense of familiarity—spending time together and slipping into roles that slowly become more natural. In their minds, this very familiarity erodes any sense of abnormality and the taboos surrounding the affair.

But Aris and Rani’s plan to deceive Nisa is proven to be a very short-lasting one. As the affair unfolds, the consequences are swift.

To Nisa, this betrayal is a catastrophic disruption of her family and her world. She simultaneously loses a husband and a sister. After the affair is exposed, Nisa often finds herself trapped between personal pain and familial obligation to take care of her dying mother. Following Rani’s pregnancy reveal and their mother’s death, the film leaves the audience longing even for the slightest sense of justice for Nisa.

This lack of justice echoes the experiences of infidelity victims in Indonesia. Earlier this year, the public saw a shocking criminal case stemming from infidelity: After exposing her husband’s affair online, a married woman was reported to and arrested by the police. The complaint was filed by the woman with whom her husband was having an affair, accusing the wife of spreading false information under the controversial Electronic Information Law (UU ITE).

Reclaiming Power after Betrayal

On average, Indonesia sees around 400,000 divorce cases each year, with nearly a quarter attributed to infidelity.

Legally, Indonesia’s new law on adultery (articles 411 and 412 of the Penal Code) is set to take effect in 2026. It aims to protect infidelity victims by enabling immediate family members to file complaints against unfaithful spouses, with penalties including up to a year in prison or a fine of Rp10 million (US$600). Of course, many argue that this punishment is nothing compared to the deep emotional and mental trauma experienced by the victims.

Perhaps the closest thing to justice is in the court of public opinion, particularly on social media. The popularity of these stories might offer victims some semblance of justice that the legal system cannot provide.

In the context of family dynamics, social media serves as a space to renegotiate relationships and societal norms. Among women, this is often expressed through sympathy, support and solidarity in the face of betrayal.

As for Nisa, the ending offers a moment of catharsis. She moves forward by accepting reality, cutting ties with the toxic forces around her and focusing on what truly matters to her—her daughter’s happiness. Ultimately, Ipar adalah Maut takes on a deeply taboo subject and forces viewers to confront the hard truth that nothing is ever as secure as it seems. The message is clear: Do not take your relationship for granted, no matter how tight the bond may be.

Sponsored Article

Dina Zaman’s new book, Malayland, will be released by co-publishers Faction Press and Ethos Books of Singapore in November 2024. Dina, one of the founders of IMAN Research, is represented by the Sivagurunathan and Chua Literary Agency.

In the second of two excerpts, the writer meets her friends who are purveyors of Malay culture and traditions. Ku Din and Pak Din are two separate individuals.

Excerpt from “Chapter Three: The Ethnocentrists”

My friend Ku Din deserves a chapter, or even a monograph, of his own. He is a collector of books and keris. His background was very much like that of many other Malay professionals in their forties: a spell at Victoria Institution, a post-university slog up through the corporate world, wasted youthful nights dancing away at Base, Phase II and Faces (and so did I…). But when he bought his first keris, his life changed. Now, he is pursuing his postgraduate studies, specialising in Malay manuscripts, while writing about the keris. Ku Din’s definition of Malayness was very different from the legal version. To him, the Malays must hold to five syarat, or principles, a key aspect of the monarch.50 “The king will make use of land for everyone to live peacefully, in harmony, and in adherence to the adat and ultimately to God,” he summarised. And the rest were tools to attain the goals of the syarat to please Allah.

I spent an afternoon at Ku Din’s home, decorated with keris and other Malay paraphernalia. A koi pond was being built. His quiet, middle-class neighbourhood was home to young couples and their growing families. He assimilated well with his neighbours, keris and all, and was active in the community. “We just uphold Malay culture and heritage,” he stated boldly, speaking about the circle of friends around him. And so here is the riddle, the enigma at the heart of this chapter. What is someone who is proud of their culture, “race” and language: 1) a supremacist, or 2) simply a passionate student and advocate? And, to stretch the question further, what did that make me? Being Malay and proud of it did not mean hating non-Malays, he insisted. When his friends wondered why he was pushing the “Malay Agenda”, he denied that this was the case. The main problem was that the Malays themselves didn’t know who they were. “The Malays prepare their children not to be workers, but to be leaders and survivors. They have to adapt to life, but it does not mean losing their identity. The Malays enter any society, adapting to its norms but do not forget who they are. When a Malay knows his identity, his roots, he won’t turn to extremism,” he insisted.

Going on, from there, in his view, the problem was that our idea of Malayness was coloured by Eurocentric views of our history, and strange ideologies entrenched within society. The Malays could not run away from God, but because their knowledge was limited, Ku Din argued that this lacuna was seen as an opportunity by Orientalists to redefine Malayness. “The reason why Malays are now rising back is because Allah has called them to investigate their histories,” he surmised.

He disagreed with how some Malay writers wrote about our paranormal myths, insisting that these all came about because of Orientalist perspectives. The problem was that the Malays themselves didn’t read Malay manuscripts written in Jawi, the Arabic-derived script around which there is rife confusion today. Who said Malays didn’t write? Who said they didn’t have the documentation? Thousands of such manuscripts do exist, with many still housed away with records of transmitted oral histories in European museums and libraries. Some of these documents had even been reduced to ash in the burning of Stamford Raffles’s ship, Fame, packed aboard in the nineteenth century before it burned and sank.

“And then writing in Jawi stopped,” said Ku Din matter-a-factly.

–

Pak Din is an old friend, and we have flitted in and out of each other’s lives since we participated in a tariqa, or Sufi religious group together. His gifts as a healer began when he was young, back when he and his family attended classes held by a tariqa (Sufi missionary) that they followed. As far as he was concerned, the tariqa was synonymous with Islam, and it was only when he reached adulthood that he found out that other interpretations excluded such circles, most notably those of the Salafis and Wahabbis. “You cannot have religion without Sufism, without the soul of [Islam],” he insisted — this was despite how its practice was ostensibly illegal.

What I was more interested in, however, was his very visible turn to ethnocentrism. It was only recently that his Facebook postings piqued my interest. No longer just about archery and horse-riding, he has lately been voicing out his admittedly conservative thoughts on non-Malays living in Malaysia, and how Tanah Melayu — as it was historically known — had been desecrated by the Malays themselves in the name of business and multiculturalism.

He lives in a cute white house decorated with flowers, right smack in the middle of an upper-income neighbourhood. The light smell of incense was already salient when I reached the garden, and his big smile greeted us. A former colleague, Nazir Sufari, had tagged along for the interview. He was researching Malay medicine and keen to know more information. Come in, Pak Din motioned, before offering plates of roti canai. His house was peppered with Naqshbandi paraphernalia, such as books, paintings and even a sword. It was oddly zen despite being filled up with objects.

Over lunch, Pak Din expounded on his vision of Malayness — grand, romantic, exclusionary, but also one of worry. To be Malay is to realise that it is a cause to die for. Where the modern, educated Malay would laugh at the perkampungan, the rurality of it all, a true Muslim would see that this world was slowly being dominated by Dajjal and its people through modernity. The conspiracies that many laughed at run as follows: Efforts to weaken or totally eradicate the influence of Malay-Muslims started in the fourteenth century. These have since been reconstituted by the Orientalists and colonial powers. At this juncture, he gives a list of claims, some wilder than others: the destruction of the Malay kingdoms, of Cham’s end, physically waged by “Chinese-based” and new “races” — a striking echo of the Comte de Gobineau. He spoke of Ibn Battuta’s fabled Princess Adruja Wijayamala Singa, who supposedly lived in the northern parts of the Malay States, perhaps up to Pattani, who stopped the advance of Raja Rama Khamhaeng the Third. I felt that I was being pulled into a storytelling session, led by a powerful tok dalang. Pak Din was engaging all right, and his gift of the gab was undeniable.

Then, there was a sudden silence. (We Malays believe that when such a thing happens, it means that a malaikat [an angel created from Light] has just passed us.) Pak Din was once labelled as a supremacist. In 2009, he took part in a horseback archery competition wearing full Malay regalia. Remarking on criticisms of his dress, he sniggered. He wasn’t trying to promote Malay culture in the United States or Taiwan, but just in Malaysia itself. “And they say it’s racist. ‘Oh, you don’t respect other people?’ We have given enough respect to other races, this is our place. What’s Malaysia? Malaysia is the short name of Persekutuan Tanah Melayu, Sabah dan Sarawak.To promote my culture here in this country is racism, oppressing others? No. It’s our character, the warmth, embracing others, allowing other races to come here. Not only that, they got even richer than us!”

Launch & Meet-the-Author

Dina Zaman’s Malayland will be launched on 15 November 2024 (6pm) at National Library Singapore. She will also make an appearance at Book Bar (57 Duxton Road, Singapore 089521) for a meet-the-author on 16 Nov (2pm).

Sponsored Article

Dina Zaman’s new book, Malayland, will be released by co-publishers Faction Press and Ethos Books of Singapore in November 2024. Dina, one of the founders of IMAN Research, is represented by the Sivagurunathan and Chua Literary Agency.

Malayland is a reflective book that asks the question: what does it mean to be a Malay in the 21^st century? It begins with the writer’s memory of the birth of Reformasi in 1998, a movement that changed the political landscape of Malaysia and birthed a new form of Islamic revivalism.

Excerpt from “Prologue: In the Beginning”

In 1998, the deputy prime minister of Malaysia, Anwar Ibrahim, was arrested for alleged sodomy. I remember a flurry of discussions at work, on the office intranet system, now heated up by mentions of Islam and Anwar. I knew that Dr. Mahathir Mohammad, the Prime Minister of Malaysia, was angry with him, but over what exactly, I didn’t know.

I didn’t feel good that morning, and once I was deep inside the Commissioning Department and Production team of the fledgling broadcasting station where we worked odd hours, it took a different medium for the news to reach me. When I picked up the newspapers declaring “Anwar Liwat!” I had to shoot off an innocent email to a friend.“‘Liwat’ tu apa?”

I was apolitical then, very much like many young women in Kuala Lumpur who wanted to earn good money and marry men with similar family and economic backgrounds. Perhaps one difference was wanting, and failing, to write the Great Malaysian Novel, and so I was awaiting the results of the Chevening scholarship, having applied for a master’s in creative writing. But the unsettling news of Anwar’s arrest and its possible implications refused to abate as I drove back home that afternoon from Seri Kembangan, where the drivers all seemed to be looking upwards. Helicopters. The menacing sound of their whirring blades droned into my car as I entertained the thought of one of them crashing into me.

We lived a few roads behind Anwar’s house in Damansara Heights — swarms of people and cars had almost choked off all access; many held placards demanding his release. Leaving my car near someone’s house, I ran uphill back home, pushing my way through the crowd. Inside, I found my mother speaking into the orange telephone with its gaudy Telekom sticker, rehashing the news with her sisters.

Meanwhile, my sisters were shouting. “Bah, Bah, what is ‘liwat’?” Like me, they did not understand what it meant.

My mother hung up and turned to my father. “What was going on?” she demanded. “How can the papers write ‘liwat’ on the front page? We are Malays. We do not use such words. There are students, young people reading newspapers.”

My father, normally a calm and quiet man, snapped. “If you mention that word again, I will rotan you. That is a bad word!”

He rolled up the papers and struck the dining table. Our cats ran off and the maids retreated into their rooms at the back of the house as he sat down on the sofa, cradling his head with his hands.

“Today is the day we Malays have lost our moral compass.”

He looked at us steadily.

“Your mother and I lived through the Japanese occupation, our Independence, and May 13. And now this. I cannot believe this has happened.”

–

When I think of the conclusions of the focus group discussions that we conducted for IMAN Research since 2016, my memory of my experience that fateful day always returns. Our focus groups had found that the overwhelming consensus among young Malaysians was one of disempowerment. Where did all this negative sentiment come from? How did we get here? The answer is tricky to pin down, but the rise of the Reformasi movement in Malaysian politics, and the turning point of Anwar’s sodomy accusation, form key components.

The Reformasi movement that began in the late 1990s — during a period of unrest and acute financial crisis — was a direct response to the previously hedonistic and materialistic ferveor that had swept the country. Money and success were king, and the Bumiputera commercial class dominated media and gossip in Kuala Lumpur. I think almost every Malay person then had high hopes of making it big, or at least joining the middle class. Or perhaps it began earlier, with Dr. Mahathir Mohamad — the prime minister that spearheaded many economic drives to create Bumiputera millionaires since taking office in 1981; whose mode of governance relied less on the social welfare and affirmative action policies of the past decade, and more on the advancement of the commercial class.

However, such “progress” had several faces and was steered at Mahathir’s whims. As Sonia Randhawa writes, “[It was n]ever attached to democracy, Mahathir found in neoliberalism, particularly when married to neoconservatism, an ideological ally”. In the nineties, before the Reformasi movement kicked off, conservatism was completely alien to us in 1990s Kuala Lumpur. Women taking to the tudung were shunned as backwards — indeed, the privileged and the professional danced at clubs like Tin Mine, Regine’s and Scandals, owned by the nightlife impresario Rhona Drury. The younger set, many of whom benefited from government scholarships and support, danced their nights away as well, and went to work nursing hangovers in a city flush with money, success and great pride; all taken in by the notion of national success. Perhaps Professor Shaharuddin Maaruf was correct in a prescient assessment, written at the start of Mahathir’s ascendancy, when he argued that the elite were less enamoured with Umar Ibn Khattab or Jose Rizal than they were with the Rothchilds. Religious belief, national pride and personal fame were nowhere as valued as financial and material wealth. Meanwhile, men like Halim Saad and Samsudin Abu Hassan could remain shrouded in mystery, but none dared to ask more questions because they were Bumi billionaires.

Launch & Meet-the-Author

Dina Zaman’s Malayland will be launched on 15 November 2024 (6pm) at National Library Singapore. She will also make an appearance at Book Bar (57 Duxton Road, Singapore 089521) for a meet-the-author on 16 Nov (2pm).

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

Introduction

Alien: Romulus spares no time at grasping the audience’s attention.

The deafening silence that accompanies its magnificent first scene – a spaceship gliding through the debris of Nostromo – is a confident way to demonstrate its fine quality as a film.

The spaceship in question was inviting a well-known monster onboard, extracting a meteorite in which the Xenomorph from the first Alien movie was entombed.

For a movie franchise that is 45 years old, the horror trope is all-too familiar. Anyone with a remote knowledge of the 1980s pop culture can already predict what would happen next: facehuggers, chest-bursting alien babies and acid-blooded Xenomorphs slaughtering everyone on board. After six Alien movies, the setting and plot of Romulus do not exactly offer anything new.

And yet, boredom did not strike me for even a second. Despite its tired elements, Romulus offers new ways of storytelling to the Alien canon that kept me invested in the story throughout its runtime.

It does not revolutionize the tenets of the franchise – in fact, many of Romulus’ elements follow the template established by the six movies that came before. How then, did Romulus become one of the best movies in the franchise as well as an entertaining horror in 2024? The answer lies in three factors: nostalgia, stunning visuals and a new interpretation of its true horror.

That ‘80s Formula

In short, Romulus is a story about a group of indentured workers and a synthetic (i.e., an android) trying to escape their homeworld and undertake a multi-year voyage across space. To achieve so, they needed to extract cryochambers from a defunct space station that, unsurprisingly, was infested with facehuggers and Xenomorphs.

Itcapitalizes on the ‘80s nostalgia that has swept the film and television industry in recent years, fuelled by the decade’s cultural gravitas as well as Hollywood’s lack of confidence at producing new materials. Blade Runner 2049, Stranger Things and It exemplify this, evoking visual imagery that is native of the ‘80s or setting an entire story in the decade.

Romulus leans towards the former. A portion of its first act is set in Jackson, shown as a dark, steampunk-ish sunless planet that reminds us of the “dirty” and bleak dystopia typical of Blade Runner and The Terminator.

When the setting finally shifts to the space station Renaissance, this identity remains just as strong, manifesting through the ‘80s interpretation of “advanced” technologies. This includes computers with convex screens, bulky keyboard keys and cubic fonts typically used for coding today, all of which give a major throwback to how technologies were depicted in the decade’s movies.

It stands in sharp contrast with its immediate predecessors Prometheus and Alien: Covenant, which opt for futuristic physics, a clean look and an optimistic take on technology. The problem is, the two movies were released around the same time period as other movies that featured a similar look and feel (such as Star Wars, Star Trek and the more realistic Interstellar). They failed to stand out among the rest.

Romulus refuses to bow to this convention, instead choosing “backward” imagery that strongly registers with today’s audience.

Magnificent Shots

Romulus is also supported by some truly magnificent shots, placing it closer to Interstellar than Star Wars in a spectrum of comparison.

Some of these are worth mentioning here. The atmospheric ascension of Corbelan, the characters’ ship, through thick and stormy clouds conjures the image of their rise from a hellscape (Jackson) to a hope for a brighter future (Renaissance) with divine intensity.

Once above the atmosphere, wide shots are also utilized to showcase Jackson’s gloomy surface coupled with its impressive belt of icy rings, portraying the outer space that is beautiful and dangerous at once. My awe was further elevated as Renaissance came into view, an imposing, floating object that would soon be the characters’ fatal agony.

This interplay between beautiful visuals and danger becomes a leitmotif throughout the movie. Renaissance’s halls, labs and rooms are well-designed but leave enough room for danger to lurk in shadowy crevices.

The station’s striking exterior is also beautifully shot, even as Corbelan crashed against its fuel tank and augmented the sense of emergency.

Of most memorable is the collision of Renaissance with Jackson’s planetary rings, depicting a stunning catastrophe brought about by ice, fire and empty space.

Beautiful shots like these usually bear a small contribution to the plot progression, but in the case of Romulus, they act as a counter to the potential boredom created by our overfamiliarity with its horror.

In other words, these shots improve the movie’s quality by injecting artistic components that force the audience to judge it beyond just its horror elements.

Moreover, they also widen our perspective of the Alien franchise by introducing a creative dimension to its expanding universe, in a way that is more impactful than the franchise’s most recent attempts. Again, Prometheus and Covenant look stylish and modern, yet they are not as striking as Romulus.

As if this is not enough, consider also the clever use of colors to accentuate the movies’ mood and ambience, which overall raised my cinematic experience. Loosely, yellow is suspense, white is safe, blue is low temperature and red is death. These accents also rarely play any role in the story but act as a useful compass as to what the audience can expect in the next few minutes or so, thereby swelling the thrill. For example, had the movie used standard lighting and colorization for the scene where dormant facehuggers were coming back to life in their cryopods, I doubt it would have had an effect as terrifying as the one shown in the movie’s final cut.

Technology and Corruption

To my surprise, my familiarity with Romulus’ alien life forms allowed me to pay more attention to its other aspects, thereby facilitating a different interpretation of what its core horror really is to me personally.

This relates to the corrupt use of technology, as well as to humans’ helplessness at trying to control it.

An early point in the story shows a bureaucrat of Weyland-Yutani, the corporation that “enslaved” the human characters on Jackson, who was manipulating her computer data to deny Rain (Cailee Spaeny) her right to relocate to a planet outside the corporation’s control.

This might seem like a menial detail. However, such a crucial act was what propelled Rain and Andy (her synthetic “brother” played by David Jonsson) to embark on their deadly adventure with the rest of the characters.

The intersection of corruption and horror is rife in Southeast Asia, where the abuse of power could pave the way for personal horror in the life of the abused. Romulus reminds us that technology can be a vector for such abuse, which, in the region’s context, has resulted in social ills and crimes.

In Indonesia, for example, the recent data leak disaster represents the nation’s desire for modernization that is not sufficiently paired with efforts to address the fundamentals, i.e., cybersecurity. As a result, the loss of millions of citizens’ personal data would be a looming anxiety over years to come, as they await in concern over how their data would be exploited by irresponsible parties.

The Malaysian government has also been under pressure to combat cybercrimes targeting vulnerable individuals, particularly children. With 4% of internet-using children in Malaysia (aged 12–17) having become victims of online sexual exploitation, we can only imagine the tales of horror these victims have experienced in the past and may continue to struggle with in the future.

Meanwhile, Cambodia has emerged as something of a hotspot of cyber-slavery, where gangsters allure individuals (often young and English-speaking) from neighboring countries with a promise of well-paid employment. The victims would soon find themselves in closed compounds with their documents seized, forced to perform online scams with no prospect of getting released.

These are just snippets of how technology has been exploited by malicious parties in Southeast Asia, leaving only destruction in their wake. They are not too dissimilar to Weyland-Yutani’s activities to keep Rain on as an indentured worker, by way of manipulating technology.

Futile Attempt

It is not an Alien movie if it does not depict the tension and collaboration between humans and synthetics. In Romulus, this manifests in the human characters’ perplexity – and eventual dread – over their inability to control Andy’s behavior and actions.

To recap, the friendly synthetic was invited to join the crew for his ability to communicate with Renaissance’s AI, allowing him to perform all sorts of tasks such as opening locked doors and navigating the station’s alien-infested corridors. Andy started to behave outside the humans’ expectations once a new module was installed on his processor, shifting his priorities away from serving Rain’s best interest to Weyland-Yutani’s.

In other words, whereas Andy’s prime directive was to preserve human lives, his “upgrade” changed to fulfilling the company’s pursuit. He also started to apply cold logic to his actions which frightened the human characters for how inhuman they seemingly were.

Nothing in this plotline also feels refreshingly new. This theme of human-synthetic tension has been a staple since Ash betrayed the human crew of Nostromo in 1979’s Alien. Subsequently, we have had Bishop (Aliens), who was a poster boy of an obedient synthetic, as well as David (Prometheus and Covenant), who was just as capable of enjoying classical music as instigating a genocide.

Romulus applies a more sinister undertone to this long-running theme, mixing Andy’s identity question and the human characters’ futile attempt at keeping him under control. The result was the latent horror that amplifies Romulus’ overt horror, i.e., the facehuggers and Xenomorphs.

For example, the cold logic of upgraded Andy demanded he terminate the pilot who was impregnated by a facehugger. Though he was unsuccessful, his attempt to do so resulted in a disaster that only worsened the overall situation. At that point, the horror shifted from the Xenomorph to Andy, as the surviving characters and audience wondered about which posed more threat.

Meanwhile, despite his initial task of obeying the humans’ request to open locked doors, upgraded Andy showed that he could decide not to abide by such a demand. At one point, he refused to open a locked door, thereby condemning the pregnant person on the other side to oblivion by Xenomorph.

The tension between Andy and the humans represents the latter’s failed attempt at controlling technology despite their utilitarian design when inviting him onboard. Ultimately, their downfall came about from their inability to anticipate the consequences of upgrading Andy, which was portrayed as the synthetic being “corrupted” by Weyland-Yutani’s capitalist pursuit.

This plotline is also consistent with the popular discourse about humans’ latent fear over machines’ unpredictability and display of higher independence, a topic which has also been highlighted in The Terminator and Mass Effect, among others. In the former, Skynet saw all humans as a threat after becoming self-aware, while in the latter, the Geth spooked its creators by asking if it has a soul, a question that can only be conceived by a sentient creature.  

In real life, AI has been observed to have behaved in unpredictable ways or even rogue-like manners thanks to glitches, biases and vulnerabilities, albeit in a far less catastrophic fashion. Linked to the previous section is how AI could also be warped by certain parties to pursue less-than-altruistic goals, such as instigating cyber-attacks, online fraud and spreading hoaxes. Furthermore, it does not help that AI continues to be viewed suspiciously among certain quarters; in Singapore, for example, less than half of SMEs surveyed claimed that AI has had or will make a positive impact on their business productivity.

If such are our concerns today, then in the probable future, Romulus shows that humans remain unable to subjugate technology to their will. The question is no longer about what we are going to use AI for; it is whether humans should be entrusted with this technology in the first place.

Whereas such plotlines would have been relegated to science fiction in previous decades, we cannot help but wonder if these have become a not-so-remote possibility thanks to today’s state of technology. Romulus’ true horror, thus, lies in its Lovecraftian approach to advanced technologies—the dread over what machines would do once they become self-aware and obtain free will, as well as humans’ futile attempt at trying to tame it.

Conclusion

Romulus is a strikingly beautiful movie and its artistic choices worked well in amplifying its quality. It abandons the clean, futuristic and high-tech look while choosing to remain faithful to the imageries of the first Alien movies, which resonate well with the audience’s taste today. The latest advancement in technology has also prompted new ways to interpret its true horror, away from the alien life forms to the synthetic beings that we strive to create today.

[WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD]

The Society Loves its Horror

How does the story about the trauma caused by a terrorist attack reflect, challenge and enlighten the Indonesian public?  

Siksa Kubur (Grave Torture) opened on 11 April 2024 in Indonesia, where horror movies are arguably the most popular in the market. The movie is a special treat for fans of horror movies who love having their intellect engaged by what they see on the widescreen. Its chief theme of repentance also seals the Ramadhan experience this year, which concluded just two days before Siksa Kubur was released.

Audience may find this cinematic experience thought-provoking, borderline nihilistic but also relatable, considering many of its components are derived from our mundane daily life. It is a blend of religious and psychological horror that is highly unusual for Indonesians, a deeply mystical society who love to be spooked by ghosts and monsters but may not necessarily grasp the terrible terror of the afterlife.  Joko Anwar penned its script and helmed its direction, creating a flawed story that continues to haunt our psyche days after credits roll.

Though not without criticism, the movie strives to enrich the public’s discourse on contemporary socio-cultural topics. It carries a strong premise about grave torture for the sinful in Islamic tradition, while also being supported by an oppressive atmosphere, stellar performance by some of its cast as well as its more subtle messages that present themselves as riddles.

For these reasons and its reflection as well as critique of the Indonesian society, Siksa Kubur is a must watch, even if its narrative structure still falls victim to questionable logic that more often than not plagues Indonesian moving pictures.

This piece attempts to explore some of the themes and messages that are scattered throughout this dark movie.

Sita Challenges Religion

In short, Siksa Kubur depicts the traumatic lives of siblings Sita (Faradina Mufti) and Adil (Reza Rahadian) whose parents were killed in a suicide bombing attack outside their bakery.

Each sibling manifests the pathos differently. Elder Adil succumbs to a lifelong depressed state, while younger Sita wages a war against religion and God. By burying herself next to the corpse of a most sinful person, Sita hopes to prove that grave torture, religion and divine power are mere societal myths.

It may appear blasphemous, but her motivation appears humane. She was forced to put a blame on something after her traumatic experience in order to help her rationalize it (which, in her case case, religion). Sita turns further away from religion after the rich owner of the pesantren they go to rapes Adil.

Putting aside the absurdity of the pesantren rape plot point (back-to-back atrocities seem punishingly nihilistic for two protagonist children), Director Joko Anwar tells a story that demotes horror from the metaphysic to the mundane, one born out of social ills and heinous crimes. He showcases that personal horror does not have to be caused by ghosts and ghouls, but by simply falling victim to a terrorist or a rapist in pesantren, the latter becoming an alarmingly frequent phenomenon in Indonesia. This way, he grounded Siksa Kubur in reality.

But he goes further than that. Siksa Kubur is his latest and most ambitious attempt at bringing dialectic to the discussion about Islamic concepts and practice through desacralization, which he has dabbled in before (e.g., both ustadz in both Pengabdi Setan [Satan’s Slaves] movies are murdered by demonic presence). In Siksa Kubur, this is shown through three instances.

First, Islam is depicted as having been twisted by its followers through the terrorist attack and the pesantren rape incident.

Second, religious characters appear irrelevant or outright despicable. Videos of ustadz discussing about grave torture are dismissed by adult Sita. Meanwhile, a weirdly-accented, despicable ustadzah (Jajang C. Noer) at young Sita’s pesantren is hell-bent on punishing Sita for breaking rules, but readily accepts the rapist owner’s proclivities because “he has helped other students”.

Third, by interrogating the very nature of grave torture, the filmmaker downgrades its presence from the absolute realm (i.e., perceived as a factual truth in Islamic tradition) to the audience’s subjective interpretation. Even that explosive ending does not offer much closure, as audience are encouraged to interpret whether the visceral depiction of grave torture is real or a result of chemical reaction in her brain.

By depicting these, Joko Anwar successfully reproduces the internal anxiety faced by Muslims in Indonesia. These are questions they probably have had to face and received no conclusive answers for (e.g., why some Muslims become terrorists; whether religious figures today are inviolable and; what comes after death; etc.). The movie is a reflection of questions, doubt and skepticism harbored by Indonesian Muslims as they practice their faith in the growing conservatism of the country. This is an important nuance for observers of Indonesian Muslims, showcasing that the religious group is richer than just their rituals, tension with outgroups or voting pattern.   

Desacralization has triggered public curiosity and outright backlash before. However, Joko Anwar cleverly employs this device to induce the audience into thinking critically about how Islam is practiced and subverted by its followers in Indonesia.

Unfortunately, for all its sublime genius in provocative imagery, Siksa Kubur falls short as a philosophical treatise. It excels in provoking the audience through images and symbols, but disappoints when it explores the debate that transpires. A particularly low point is the central confrontation between Sita and Pak Wahyu about the nature of grave torture. In it, Pak Wahyu’s renunciation of spiritual torment in grave simply rests upon his opinion that ustadz everywhere do not discuss about it. It is an example of shallow arguments that mar the more critical conversations throughout the movie.

This puts Siksa Kubur in contrast to religious horror masterpiece Midnight Mass, which scrutinizes religion and affirms faith unashamedly. Alternatively, Joko Anwar’s restraint might also reflect Muslims’ own reluctance at confronting religion with critical questions, which is also another source of internal discomfort among the community.

Siksa Kubur is rife with thought-provoking religious symbolism without having to go full-blown Islamic, even if it does not invite us into a philosophical ride.

Adil Subverts the Stereotypes

Siksa Kubur is also not hesitant to challenge common gender stereotypes that prevail in Indonesia.

Character-wise, Sita is presented as an antithesis to a tired horror trope that frequently portrays women as an antagonistic ghoul. This patriarchal and exploitative approach is common in Indonesia’s horror repertoire, such as Joko Anwar’s own Pengabdi Setan, Suzanna: Buried Alive and KKN di Desa Penari (Community Service at the Dancer’s Village).

Her arc is unique. She may have been victimized early in the movie, but she draws on her trauma to pursue a life goal (i.e., waging a war against religion) as a rational, breathing woman. In other movies, she probably needs to die and comes back as a vengeful, cackling ghost before her objective can be achieved.

Since the first minutes, she has been portrayed as the more dominant of the two siblings, making difficult decision and charting the path that she and Adil must tread. She does this despite being the younger of the two and a woman, which challenges a common cultural expectation that see men as a leader and more rational gender.

Stereotypes are further subverted by the reserved Adil. Between the siblings, the latter is arguably more miserable: 1) he could have prevented his parents’ deaths; 2) he is raped by the pesantren owner and; 3) he feels emasculated next to his very capable sister. Whereas Sita is empowered by her anger, Adil’s trauma wrecks his life, strains his relationships (his wife leaves him) and plunges him into endless depression.

He may be trauma personified, but as a character he challenges the societal assumption that only women are susceptible to mental health problems. He shows what trauma and depression does to a man in a believable way, thanks to Reza Rahadian’s scene-stealing performance. The palpability of his anguish nudges us to also ponder upon the pain endured by real-life survivors of terrorist and rape incidents, including boys and men.

Even toxic masculinity is not spared. Siksa Kubur encourages us to empathize with non-conforming men who are not hesitant to display strong emotion. Adil is consistently exhibited as having qualities that may not be expected in an alpha male: 1) compassion (he offers warm water to a thirsty customer, who minutes later kills his parents); 2) sensitive (he is aware of his flaws as the older sibling) and; 3) level-headedness (he is cautious of the potential fallout of Sita’s scheme). Adil also expresses his emotion more openly compared to Sita with her stoic defiance, visibly crying at various points in an apparent display of grief.

Siksa Kubur wants us to confront our prejudice and asks if we judge these characters, even if they do not comply to the societal standards that we subscribe to. Case in point: when Adil gets indecisive and confused in a particularly stressful scene, the girl seated next to me blurted, “I really hate this Adil.”

Pak Wahyu Screams in His Grave

The central story of Siksa Kubur alone is packed with messages and provocations despite descending into a bizarre haunting plotline in its second act. However, what makes this movie truly dazzling is its existence as a metaphor of a journey towards acceptance and healing.  

Throughout the film, Sita and Adil are almost exclusively seen indoors, suggested to be their trauma response to the danger that lurks outside (their parents are killed outside their bakery). Things shift after Pak Wahyu’s suicide, as the they start finding problems indoors too. Sita is harassed by a black apparition (implied to be either one of the angels Munkar and Nakir) and Adil was attacked by a walking corpse. These may symbolize their festering trauma that starts to cause problems to their psyche as they fail to address it.

The key to this indoor vs. outdoor riddle lies towards the end, when Sita embarks on a psychological journey into herself, ending up in the same tunnel she used to escape from the pesantren years ago. After getting harassed by restless spirits, the black angel and the demonic version of Pak Wahyu, Sita soon finds herself in her family’s bakery with her parents outside, all-smiles and waving goodbye to her before peacefully disappearing.

This is the most critical scene in the story, as Sita – who is crying at this point – is seemingly informed by her parents that she needs to accept their death and let go of her anger. She must find her way outside from the prison of trauma that she builds and encloses herself within. It is one that offers a completely different interpretation of what the movie conveys – a psychological journey of healing instead of an outright horror.

This theme is further reinforced afterwards, with Sita helping a spirit of Pak Wahyu’s rape victim to pass on to the afterlife, suggesting her acceptance of the metaphysics after spending years rejecting its possibility. As Sita wakes up next to Pak Wahyu’s corpse moments before it is tortured in the most unspeakable way, she screams out for help and finally seeks for forgiveness and help from God. Her arc is completed here, having transformed from a person who blames religion and God for her pain to one that accepts God’s greatness and the strange mysteries of life.

Sita’s horrific journey is a symbolism of the arduous process that individuals suffering from mental health challenges must undertake to heal. In a society where conversation about mental health is still frowned upon, the severity of the issue compounds. In 2018, more than 12 million Indonesians aged 15 and above suffered from different stages of depression, but less than 3% actively sought professional help. Meanwhile, in 2022 it is estimated that 12,250 Indonesian adolescents were afflicted with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), the same issue endured by Sita and Adil.

Siksa Kubur is a window into the daily suffering of those who live with unresolved trauma and internal conflict, as well as the terrible consequences of not addressing them. If we can find ourselves identifying with Sita and Adil, then it should not be difficult for us to build compassion for victims of traumatizing experience in Indonesia as well, which includes armed conflict, bullying, terrorist attack, domestic and sexual violence, accident, natural disaster, and many more. A simple Google search will inform us of the variety and frequency of social ills amidst the Indonesian society today, potentially giving birth to hundreds if not thousands of Sita and Adil every day.

Sita may find her resolution at the end of the movie, but we cannot expect real-life Sitas and Adils to suffer through a similarly punishing ride before finding their peace as well. A pertinent question thus arises: do perpetrators of violence, abuse, crimes and other social ills believe in the existence of grave torture before committing deeds that leave others traumatized?

Man Robbuka?

On a personal level, Siksa Kubur is a profound story that compels one to introspect on their life, wrongdoings and virtues. It is effective both as a psychological and religious horror, even if it loses its footing in the middle and fails as a philosophical argument. Its brilliance, however, lies in its ability to reflect the realities of the Muslim society in Indonesia, challenge prevailing norms and standards, as well as pinpoint the issues that deserve more attention in Indonesia. If not for its shortfalls, it could have been Joko Anwar’s masterpiece, surpassing even Perempuan Tanah Jahanam (Impetigore).