2008/09/27

By : Johan Jaaffar

Those days, it was a tedious process. The head spoke in Jawa Halus (literally fine Javanese or language of the court). It takes at least 15 minutes of mohon maaf replete with a firm handshake, lots of nodding and shedding a tear or two. Besides baraan there are many other rituals still practised by my kampung folk. They are largely descendents of those who came from Ponorogo in Eastern Java who form the majority of the Javanese people in Johor.

In my village, the Javanese lived in an area identified as Darat (literally further inroad from the main road) while the Malays lived nearer to the sea (Baruh). I lived at the Darat, among the Javanese, and I speak the language fluently, even catching up bits and pieces of the incredibly difficult-to-master Jawa Halus. I grew up with Javanese boys and girls. My father and mother, both of Bugis descent, lived with them for many decades, but could hardly speak the language, though they understand what was spoken.

Any sociologist studying the impact of modernisation in rural Malaysia should visit my village, Kampung Sungai Balang in Muar. There, age-old traditions are very much alive and kicking. Talk about esprit de corps, you'll be surprised social norms are observed as much today as they were decades ago. Socialisation is a process that warrants adherence to collective values and responsibilities and sanctions are applied on those who fail to comply. Deviants are frowned upon.

The lives of the people are very much determined by religion and culture. In fact, the two are intertwined to make it almost difficult to discern the sacred and the secular. In many Malaysian villages, cooking and serving at weddings are left to caterers, in my village the pakatan (congregation) is still intact. Many days before the auspicious occasion, a balai (literally a temporary structure to feed the guests, now of course canopies are taking its place) will be erected. The entire congregation will deliver the utensils the day before and the women will help to prepare for the big day, decorating the house and making the pelamin (bridal dais). There will be the lek lek an, when every one will be helping to prepare the food the night before the wedding.
Those who want to show their talent in berzanji (reading from a book of praises for the Prophet) can join the group until the wee hours of the morning. It was an unofficial competition or sport, the one with the best voice and the perfect style was the envy of the rest.

Of course, there are rituals deemed un-Islamic by today's standard of religious correctness. But in those days, sepasaran, a ritual to welcome an occasion when a baby reaches a certain age, was accepted as part of the social necessity.

Back then, there was a belief about those who die on a Jumaat Kliwon (a special Friday in the Javanese calendar), where the body parts were best suited for black magic purposes. The graves of those who died on that day would be guarded for 40 days and nights.

Many of these beliefs have died a natural death, but the ways of the old are remembered fondly by members of the society.

This is the community that brought along with them performing arts in the form of wayang kulit, wayang wong, wayang gedok, kuda kepang and barongan. In fact, many of these performances have survived the test of time.

Do not take these theatrical expressions lightly. When the Tourism Board promoted barongan as one of our own to show our diversity, the people of Ponorogo in Java erupted in protest, claiming barongan was theirs and we had no right to it. It became a public relations and diplomatic nightmare last year.

Baraan has not changed over the decades. We used to cycle around, meandering through peat soil, sometimes into inaccessible areas and on soggy paths. It took us at least seven days to finish visiting all the houses, moving slowly a few hours a day, sometimes even at night. Now the process is speedier. We could complete it in a day.

But modernisation is rearing its ugly head. Many of the boys who lived in the cities now avoid joining the baraan, citing time constraints and other commitments. But I have soldiered on for more than four decades. I missed the baraan only twice, the first time when I was studying abroad, the second time when we decided to berhari raya in the city, a decision my children never forgave me for.

Things have changed in my village. But the spirit of baraan lives on. Perhaps, it means different things to different people. Perhaps it will not even survive the challenges of the day. But to me, it means more than just nostalgia and a social commitment. I take it as an opportunity to visit the people I have known since I was a kid. Some were an integral part of the founding of the settlement there. Many came from Java with only the determination to open up jungles and start a life. More importantly I grew up with their children. There are fewer old faces every year as we go on the baraan rounds.

I remember many of them fondly. Wak Rahmat the gasing (top) maker; Wak Dayat the storyteller; Wak Kemis the village clown and Hassan Bai the footballer. They have all passed away together with many of the women who scolded me and my friends for muddying the stream while they were washing their clothes. Many of them -- Mbah Wek, Mbok Tuginah and Kak Ra -- helped me define the meaning of respect and honour.

They are part of my narrative, a village boy hurtled into the city. For that I don't mind joining the baraan again this Hari Raya.

SOURCE: NEW STRAITS TIMES