By Aiman Azahari
Our national history is a fabric woven from the threads of local histories, spun from the collective memories of our communities.
Yet, when these collective memories decay, the fabric weakens and grows brittle. No longer usable in daily life, it must be preserved as a relic – detached from us, transformed into something we see but no longer feel connected to.
Only by keeping these memories alive – by mending the frayed threads – can we truly remember our origins, our identity and the lessons of history.
This living memory is our defence: it deters us from repeating errors and fortifies us against the divisive tactics of those who would control or harm us.
This concept of active remembrance through community engagement shifted decisively from theory to practice during a recent experience: my participation in a local kampong walkabout in Ayer Itam, Penang.
The event, organised by Penang Walkabout and Penang Hidden Gems, in conjunction with Penang Lang Community Day, made the abstract fabric of our shared past suddenly tangible and immediate.
Guided by the eloquent and engaging Tan Choon Eng (affectionately known as CE), the walkabout began at the Ayer Itam War Memorial Park – a solemn space dedicated to World War Two heroes.
Inaugurated in 1951, the park honours 358 ethnic Chinese Penang volunteers who risked their lives transporting supplies and constructing the Burma-China Road during the Japanese blockade.
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CE revealed a hidden chapter of this history: though the call was for men, four courageous women – reminiscent of the legendary Hua Mulan – disguised themselves as men to join the struggle. Their stories nearly vanished from memory, surviving only through letters from Bai Xue Qiao (d 2014), the last of the four.
This act of remembrance grows even more poignant against the backdrop of Imperial Japan’s genocidal campaign against Chinese communities across the region.
On Penang Island alone, at least 5,000 Chinese civilians – teachers, students and ordinary citizens—were killed. The park’s 49-foot obelisk stands above a mass grave holding 800 exhumed victims, finally granted a dignified resting place.
More than a memorial, this park embodies the sacrifices of Penang’s Chinese community – forever torn between ancestral homeland and adopted Malaya, yet unwavering in their courage.
Strolling through Ayer Itam’s villages revealed a different reality – one where people of diverse ethnicities and faiths lived as a cohesive community, starkly contrasting with modern divisions.
At first glance, these kampongs resembled the homogenous settlements often portrayed in the media. Yet closer inspection unveiled subtle markers of identity: as CE pointed out, an ethnic Indian home was always shaded by a neem tree; an ethnic Chinese household framed by medicinal herbs like powder puff; an ethnic Malay house raised gracefully on stilts. Even colonial-inspired brick structures whispered stories – locals called them ang mo lou (Hokkien for white people’s houses) – a quiet testament to layers of history woven into the landscape.
Throughout the kampong, we encountered Chinese earth-spirit shrines (Datuk Gong) – a tradition rooted in ancestral practices. Yet here, they embodied something extraordinary: instead of Chinese deities, these shrines honoured Malay-Muslim figures and Indian healers revered by the community: chieftains, warriors, teachers and local heroes whose legacies transcended ethnic lines.
Our first stop revealed this fusion vividly: a shrine to Datuk Putih, an Indian healer, shared sacred ground with a shrine to Kali, the protective mother goddess – their altars side-by-side under the same trees.
Further on, the shrine of the Seven Malay Muslim Brothers (Tujuh Beradik) stood with icons dressed in songkok, baju Melayu and kain sampin, each holding a walking cane – a tapestry of vernacular devotion.
Most striking was a shrine atop a mound: no icons, only a lone songkok and cane resting before a stone inscribed in Chinese: 拿扶家家好; 督庇戶戶安- “Blessings upon every family; Safety within every home.” In this silent space, objects became prayers.
Standing before that icon-less shrine, I realised these kampongs were not relics of the past – they were living blueprints for coexistence, etched into neem trees and altars crowned with songkok.
As I absorbed this syncretic reality – a harmony no textbook could capture – we were greeted by Aunty Mary. With warm spontaneity, she led us to a towering moringa tree shading her family’s open-air shrine, where an eclectic pantheon embraces deities across faiths and traditions.
Beneath its branches, divine coexistence took physical form: Maa Kali, depicted both as benevolent mother and as Mahakali slayer of evil; Lord Ganesha and Hanuman, shown as youthful forms and realised deities; and on the other end a Malay-Muslim Datuk Gong, revered as a Chinese earth spirit.
The shrine’s caretaker is Aunty Mary’s Hindu brother-in-law. Yet Mary herself -a devoted Roman Catholic and fluent polyglot (speaking English, Malay, Tamil and Hokkien) – embodies the spirit of this sacred space: a testament to devotion without borders.
In this humble compound – where Kali’s power meets Datuk’s vigilance, and a Catholic woman tends gods not her own – I saw Malaysia’s soul: not in monoliths, but in the quiet alchemy of shared ground.
Our walkabout concluded at the newly opened Sunshine Mall, but not before visiting the mausoleum of Syeikh Omar Basheer (died 1881) – the first imam of the Acheh Street Mosque, Penang’s inaugural mufti and Sufi scholar whose spiritual influence extended across the Nusantara and West Asia. To this day, his tomb draws pilgrims worldwide, a testament to his enduring legacy.
Sheikh Omar Basheer, of the Naqshabandi order, pioneered the practice of suluk: a rigorous path of purifying body and soul through repentance, emptying oneself of inner and outer vices, and filling the void with divine virtues. This discipline remains vital across the Muslim world.
His moral courage reshaped Penang’s history. During the 1867 secret society riots – where Malay gangs backed warring Chinese factions (Ghee Hin and Toh Pek Kong) – Basheer issued a revolutionary fatwa: forbidding Muslim involvement in secret societies or any action harming society, Muslim or people of other faiths alike. Thousands heeded his call, swearing oaths to abandon violence.
Yet today, his Sufi identity and contributions face erasure. Revisionists reduce him to a state-approved icon, stripping him of his mystical lineage and pluralistic vision.
As we struggle to reclaim fading memories – like the syncretic wisdom of Datuk Gong shrines – we must resist this hegemonic rewriting. Sheikh Omar Basheer’s truth matters: a beacon against division, now more than ever.
Aiman Azahari is a Kuala Lumpur-based freelance stage producer, director and curator, who is also a budding writer deeply interested in Malaysian history, culture and traditions.
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