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©The Sun (Used by permission)
by Fahmi Fadzil

I was looking through my belongings at my office the other day. theSun photographer had arrived, and we were trying to figure out ways to take a picture of me with an “inter-ethnic relations” background (a Singaporean friend would frantically ask, “What does it mean?!”).

I had thought perhaps we could go to the nearby Pasar Taman Tun Dr Ismail, but the weather wasn’t being very cooperative.

In the end, I brought out some wayang kulit puppets that I kept in the office and we ended up using them in the photo shoot.

“So this article on inter-ethnic relations in Malaysia has something to do with wayang, then?” the photographer queried.

Kind of. In my brief excursions into the world of wayang up to this point, I can say that the magic of the wayang’s mythological universe and its narratives are upheld, sustained, and evolved by a deep and resounding belief in a mythology that is held, rationalised, and realised by the master puppeteer, the musicians, and especially the audience.

In Kelantan today, after nearly 20 years of dogmatic disruptions to this art form’s continuity, we have only now begun to tally the damage ill-informed state policies have wrought on this highly syncretic and increasingly fragile form of performance.

How wayang has even survived up to now – not just in Malaysia, but also in Cambodia, Thailand and Indonesia – is rather difficult to ascertain, and an overly simplistic cause-and-effect thread of logic might not suffice.

But we should try nonetheless, because I suspect that in teasing some answers out of this, we can begin to look at what lies ahead for us, and for our relationships with Malaysia.

On numerous levels, stories from the wayang repertoire show the resilience and fortitude of the indigenous narrative architecture; while the story itself is alien – from the Indian epic of the Ramayana – the story-telling structure is so robust and resilient that the epic has been absorbed, processed, adapted, and thereafter co-opted by the performers with such amazing grace that it eventually has little to do with the original text.

I have begun to be aware that the Ramayana’s transformation into the Hikayat Maharajawana is a way for these storytellers to continue telling stories that reach farther back into our antiquity, hidden and coded as they are by the figures and symbols of wayang.

In some fashion, you could say that a contemporary analogue of this would be the Malaysian adaptation and practice of democracy. I am not sure how I feel about this, though.

Yet how does this conversation about an old art form relate to envisioning inter-ethnic relations in this country of ours, a golden celebration later?

Well, from my conversations with jaded friends, it appears that, firstly, we’re making a huge assumption that this country will still be around 50 years down the line, what with the kind of divisive and chauvinistic brinkmanship we’re witnessing today.

But, and this is a huge but, assuming it is still around, then we must first recognise that Malaysia exists in the here and now because we believe in it as a myth, as a continuous narrative that has been transformed over time.

More importantly, this myth continues to be sustained and transformed by the performers of the myth: you and I.

All nations in that sense are mythical because it’s all in our heads. Of course you could argue that there’s the law to keep everyone in check, but to do that, you need a relentlessly healthy judiciary. And you know what people have been saying about that ever since 1988.

So, just like wayang, the myths about Malaysia - the nation state, its past glories, heroes, and histories - need to be continuously attended to, re-enacted, performed.

That’s why we have our annual Merdeka celebrations, right?

The question is, who decides which stories to tell?

Fifty years from now, I envision a band of dalangs (master puppeteers) – not literally, but in the shape of writers, lawyers, politicians, and Malaysian citizens in general – who will dare to resist the officially-sanctioned stories and narratives by adapting, processing, co-opting, and finally subverting the symbols and codes that have been employed.

I won’t go into the details of how this will be done – and let the officials see all our cards? Oh, come on! – but I can tell you what will come out of it: the continuous creation of a Malaysia wherein there is indeed a place for all our stories to be told.
Well, I suppose this is happening even now, but it’s good to envision it continuing into the future.

Fifty years from now, I envision a Malaysia with Malaysians who will not look at other Malaysians as bumiputra, pendatang (migrant), or any other similar ill-conceived “honorific”, but as people who can accept ourselves for who we are: each of us is a Malaysian of a particular ethnic lineage, yet we possess some essence, some character, of all other Malaysians as well. Therefore, these other ethnicities are also inextricably a part of us.

As a Negri Sembilan-Perak Malay Malaysian, I am also Hokkien, Malayalee, Punjabi, Cantonese, Melayu Kelantan, Melanau, and Orang Asal. These cultures cannot be separated from me, because their permutations, evolutions and adaptations have informed my worldview as I was growing up, continue to do so as I grow older, and will continue to inform a particular worldview long after that.

Fifty years from now, I envision that race-based politics will no longer be taken seriously.

Fifty years from now, I envision that the myths of a “Malaysia for us all” will come true. But it all needs to begin today.

And if wayang kulit, an art form that has survived for hundreds of years, can do it, why not Malaysia?

Fahmi Fadzil is a performer and a writer.

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