While the nation reels from discomforting narratives exchanged over the presence of Muslims in the homes and houses of worship of non-Muslims, for festivals and bereavement events, a Catholic journalist shares his bond of friendship with Ustaz Jamil.
This story is a testament, that it is possible to forge blissful interfaith bonding among the many races in Malaysia. When similarities are celebrated and differences are respected, that is where the elusive Malaysian utopia is to be found.
In the first week of this year, I lost a dear friend, Jamil Sidik. Jamil and I have been friends since Standard Four. And that was way back in 1967.
We became close friends because of our common admiration for boxer Muhammad Ali who was the rave of the day then.
Decades later, Jamil and I touched base again via our school WhatsApp group called “Tarsian”. Tars is the acronym for Tuanku Abdul Rahman School, where we studied hard and played hard, thoroughly enjoying our schoolboy days in Gemas, Negeri Sembilan.
But it was a different Jamil now. He looked like a true blue Mohammedan and was wearing a white kopiah (skullcap). Jamil told me he had three wives. In his demeanour, he expressed a staunch certitude and conviction about his Muslim faith - just as Muhammad Ali ballyhooed his newfound faith in Islam.
Jamil ran a Muslim-based early child education centre while doubling as an ustaz in his community. I told Jamil that I was a reporter for an English daily.
Like childhood chums, we shared our post-high-school adventures, what we did, where we went, and how we lived in the present, our families, and what we did for a living.
Jamil told me he spent some time in New Zealand, hired by a Malaysian beef importer based there. His job was to slaughter beef cattle according to Islamic rites. Jamil’s passion for competitive sports is legendary. He told me he had the opportunity to play rugby with New Zealanders, Fijians, Australians, and Samoans.
It was obvious to me that my classmate of 1967 had an adventurous life in his young adult years while I breezed through those years, from being a census taker to a copywriter, and even doing a short stint in a Catholic seminary, till I realised I was not “priest material” and finally found my true calling in journalism.
There was another common interest that Jamil and I shared - religion, the world’s philosophies, the cultures and rituals of the people of the world.
From time to time, when Jamil and I talked on the phone, or when we met casually, we would exchange notes on religions and philosophies. We spoke so much on Islam, Christianity, and other faiths, not realising that we were actually delving into the study of “comparative religion” like unscheduled scholars.
The azan in my story
In 2007, Malaysia celebrated 50 years of independence. I too turned 50 that year, having been born in 1957. And so did Jamil. In conjunction with the upcoming Merdeka Day, the newspaper I worked for at the time planned to publish a series of feature articles as a “run-up” to the big day.
I was told to pen an article on the demographic face of the country, and given instructions to highlight the many races and religions of the country, social cohesion, and interfaith bonding among the Malaysian people.
We all know that Malaysia is a cacophony of diverse races professing a myriad of religions, including Islam, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, Sikhism, the Bahai faith, Jainism, and Atheism.
Atheism? Yes! Even an atheist will scream “OMG!” when he or she sees a white figure around the window at night… no?
Being someone who loves to give readers anecdotal surprises, I took an unusual approach to penning my pre-Merdeka story. Confidently, I decided to flag off my story with the Arabic Muslim call to prayer or “azan” as we universally call it.
This is where I roped in my buddy Jamil, who played an anonymous, but key role in helping me write my story. He transcribed the entire azan for me, taking time to translate it into English, explaining the meaning of every line, so that I would gain basic knowledge of this sacred call to prayer.
In my story-telling, apart from the azan, I included the liturgical chorales from the other vibrant congregations of Asia’s living faiths; the sedate drone-like chanting of Buddhist monks, the resonant ringing of pooja bells in Hindu temples, the oceanic echoes from conch shells, and of course - the organ’s microtonal strains lending fervour to the quaint and upbeat “Ave Maria”.
I attempted to tell my story as lived and celebrated daily by the people of Malaysia, through the chanting of their sacred anthems and canticles: the beating of Indian drums and Oriental gongs, and the sight of spiralling plumes of incense and camphor rising heavenwards.
And amid all these renditions and redolence - the azan’s rallying cantor from the minaret, rising to a crescendo and symphonising a combined potpourri of invocations from a multi-religious and spirited Malaysian citizenry.
Satisfied with what I had written, I dispatched my story to the editor’s desk. Of course, there was this gnawing sense that any foreign word or paragraph in the story would set off alarm bells on the editor’s radar.
It did!
Editor: What is the azan doing in your story?
Me: Why, is there anything wrong with that?
Editor: Precisely, that is the point. I do not read Arabic and I will not know if everything is right with it.
I then took out Jamil’s photo in which he was dressed in his ustaz attire and donning a white skull cap. Showing it to him, I said: “This guy wrote it. He is an ustaz and a certified slaughterman with a beef-exporting company in New Zealand.”
No further questions were asked. The story went to print.
It was published under the heading “Enduring Expressions of Faith”. I liked the headline. However, the long odyssey of my azan story did not end there. It continued to endure… creating a little ripple by winning an award offered by the Europe-based International Union of the Press.
My story earned the laureate position in the “Interfaith Category”, beating all other entries that were submitted by the rest of the world for that category.
Of course, I am grateful to Jamil for this little “award-winning triumph”.
Just as I am concluding this eulogy on behalf of Jamil, the call to the day’s Zohor prayers incidentally cantors from the TV. What an opportune moment this came to be, to raise a fitting salute to my buddy, Jamil. In the hushed stillness, I hailed: “May God look with favour upon your soul. May it be placed among His favoured saints in Jannah. Rest in peace my friend, Jamil”. - Mkini
JOSEPH MASILAMANY is a veteran journalist who still loves a tale or two. He now resides in a tranquil kampong among the Bidayuh community in Sarawak with his wife, Marilyn Madrod. Masilamany is very much a socialist and interfaith person at heart. If not writing a story, he retreats to writing poems focussing on pro-socialist persuasions.
The views expressed here are those of the author/contributor and do not necessarily represent the views of MMKtT.
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