That's Entertainment!

The long road leading to the heart of the kampong was packed with cars of various make and people of various color; some came from as far as the neighboring state, crossing the bordering river in convoys of vans and motorcars, and with an entourage of family and friends each, leaving their homes and workplaces as early a weekend journey as noon, even if the event was scheduled to start a bit later into the night, just as soon as the guest speakers had finished their isyaa at the kampong’s surau.

"Penceramah-penceramah malam ni, boleh tahan."

Several young men in long white robes and bulky green headdresses were chaotically waving their hands high up in the air, directing the slow-moving traffic into makeshift parking lots and local residents' front lawns; what had given them the authority to be able to do so was quite obvious, a dark green name tag was hanging from their necks down. Despite the panic and the poorly lit road, these young men managed to restore a substantial degree of order, the overflowing traffic coached into submission; their yellow jacket a luminous armor from the reflection of the car's headlights, these young men feared nothing but a parking deadlock. Their faces flushed with dread. From the rear view window, I could see cars stacked into small slots of parking. I wondered how would the owners be able to get their automobiles out of this mighty fine mess when the event is finally over; with all the noise generated, and the smoke released, and the traffic mayhem coordinated, and the underdeveloped road crowded, and the kampong being far away from the main road, and the absence of strategically placed road signs at the kampong’s many junctions, and the mass exodus of the tired audience from the main staging ground, all this under the night's gloomy cover; but none of that mattered to them, and not to Dad, too, I guess, for all that we cared for then was to get ourselves off the road and onto the streets -- the main event was close to its starting time.

"Yang jaga trafik ni, pemuda lajnah kampong jiran ni."

Dad was very patient finding space to park the car; us his kids, we had never seen him so subdued dealing with congested traffic, and the kampong was dark, and Mom was awfully quiet. Oftentimes, it would be her who drives Dad nuts into road rage; Mom is a very bad co-pilot, and the many times we lost our way into a family friend's wedding feast in an unfamiliar town, she had to step out of the car and find a townsfolk to ask for the proper direction at the persuasive behest of her angry driver husband.

"Semua orang ingat mana ayah park kereta, tak?"

Looking up at the wooden kampong house near to where the car was parked, its windows shut tight but still pale yellow lights penetrated through, moving shadows of the house inhabitants inside, their figure faded in and out, a family of four prepared its male members to an outing. The father and his adult son were at the door, the mother handing to them each their songkoks, the daughter in her white telekung stood obediently at he mother's side, waving her listless goodbye to them. She and her mother were to stay at home that night, even though the event that night was a once-in-lifetime deal that never would have happened to their simple hamlet life if not for the upcoming national election; "to guard the house", the father said, and he walked away from the cement stairs of his manor as fast as the walking stick could support him; "there are many out-of-towners in the kampong tonight", the son interjected, and he soon followed suit his seasoned father at a more youthful pace. The old mother smiled an obedient wife's smile, her gaze lowered, her hands at the sides, occupied with the torn worn edges of her housemaker dress; the teenage daughter's lips crooked in disagreement with the two, her arms upfront and folded around her chest, she shouted back at them, in a blunt voice partly polite to her elders and partly rude to the strangers parking their cars in front of her lawn, "come back home quick, or we will lock the doors and sleep".

"Sarah, pegang anak tu, kang hilang kang."

The night sky was painted flat with blue ink, it was without stars, and I remember this very well, and although the moon was at its full shine phase, the lunar scythe cycle near its completion, the lights from thousands of cars that rushed out of the veins of an interstate highway and onto the shoulder of the poorly lit kampong were as brilliant as fireflies themselves; their headlights torched the way for us, and my kid brothers held my hands tight, as we walked towards the source of all the commotion.

*****

"Korang berdua guna bilik air lama sangat, kenapa!"

We were late for our Jumaat prayers, as usual; Dad had to take a last minute dump, and although Fairuz and I were exceptionally quick at dressing ourselves up to go to the mosque that day, he still managed to lash at us a few quick blame for being late. Dad has always proven himself the most righteous person to his kids; he's the man of the house, he is never wrong. Fairuz was staring at the car's leather dashboard like it was an abstract Picasso, ignoring his old man's constant nagging, and I sat in the middle of the back seat trying my best to avoid eye contact with anyone, I didn't give a damn about his in-car lecture. All along the journey, Dad kept on pressing us the virtues of arriving to the mosque early; the first to arrive and do his tahiyatul masjid will get his pahala as big as a camel, and the next, a stallion, and the next, a cow, and the next, a sapi, and the next, a goat, and so on to the last poor bastard who comes; and how we should dress ourselves for it, the non-alcoholic perfume, the wudhu at home, the clean kain pelikat, the newly brushed songkok, and the calm mindset. Essentially, Dad was covering his own ass in front of his kids, as he pressed the car to a near madman's speed; the clock was ticking away his precious goat. But both of us, Fairuz and I, we knew what happened; the man had a crap. None of us spoke a word in self-defense; it was useless, we are used to it by now.

"Sampai kat masjid nanti, jangan lupa niat iktiqaf, tahu?"

We were not the last one to arrive. The main gate to the mosque compound was bursting with late-comers, probably caught up by the busy lunch hour traffic; all of them were trying to get in as quick as possible before the khutbah starts. There were cars parked everywhere, some on the paved road, some on the green grass and some on the mosque officials' designated parking lots; a few minivans were even brave enough to park themselves next to the infamous black-colored kereta mayat. Those who came on foot, the ones with the promised pahala with each step they take from their homes, they had no parking trouble; the only thing to be bothered with was how to not let their costly sandals and brand name shoes be the victims of petty theft by the Sekolah Menengah Sains students. Those who came on two-wheels, the mosque had provided a bicycle rack for their use, but the number of bikes was oftentimes too much for the rack to accommodate. Those with motorcycles, they had no respect for neatness, anyplace is a valid parking spot. The first thing that you will see upon arrival at the mosque is large-scale chaos at the foot of its main stairs; the sandals scattered all throughout the floor, a few slippers hidden in the thick flower bushes, a pair or two under the flower pots next to the rain gutters.

"Cepat, cepat, masuk, khatib dah nak start tu."

Walking up the main stairs, to the left and to the right, old men and little boys, they hung out. A few of the old men were sitting on the steps of the stairs themselves, talking to friends and neighbors, their faces looked tired after a long week at work. The little boys, some as young as 3 years old, they came to the mosque with their dads, and there, they meet with other small kids who came with their dads; the mosque is the last thing in their mind to get their lives busy with, they have no idea why they are there, but still, they thought that, it's quite an okay place to get to know other kids their age. All the other boys in their neighborhood, especially the older ones, go to the mosque on this day and at this hour; so, why not? Dad rushed past them all, his eyes fixed to the inside of the mosque, those who had come earlier than him, some were sitting idly waiting for the muazzin to call for the azan so that the khatib would formally enter the main chamber to start things going, some were doing their tahiyatul masjid faithfully and taking their time at it, and some were reading the Koran provided by the small wooden cabinet up on the wall in front of them, silently and attentively. The Sekolah Menengah Sains students, they were scattered throughout the main prayer hall, but most were at the back saf, leaning against the wall; their distinct school uniform, a light green sampin on a white baju melayu, those who wore it neatly, they looked very sharp, and those who let loose their sampins and their jambul exposed, not only were they dishonoring their school but also made sloppy of the mosque, these sandal thieves.

"Nawaitu iktiqaf fi hazal masjidi lillahi taala."

Fairuz stopped short at the fourth saf from the front, beyond that were saf for the elderly and the warak, but he is none of that; I sat down near the brick window, where the cool evening breeze was strong and consistent, and set out to make myself comfortable. There was approximately fifteen more minutes before the muazzin would start on his azan, and Fairuz took this opportunity well, he read a Yaasin. Next to me was an old man sitting on his two feet folded over each other, he wore a small white kopiah on his head, his fingers busy with a tasbih made from large and round black and green beads. His eyes were closed shut, but his lips were moving in coherence with his fingers; he had not noticed my sitting next to him. I touched his right knee with the back of my hand, a gentle tap, and said my salam to him; immediately, he blinked, and then he shook my hand, before continuing on with business. To my front was a young adult who did not have the time to change from his work clothes, he might have been a construction worker, and probably an Indonesian national, too; he was half-asleep, his head was lowered to the chest, his two shoulders looked as if they were embracing his ears. He didn't snore, thank God, but his breathing was heavy, and he had his mouth opened, which was not a pretty sight. I looked around the hall some more, maybe today I would finally get to meet a familiar face from my sekolah rendah days, but all that I could spot amongst the jemaah was more people with their head down and their eyes shut, people of all ages, young and old, smart and sloppy, all of them sleeping.

"Allahu akbar Allahu akbar!"

Heads started to pop up, some gradually, as if they had done nothing wrong, and some jolted, as if they had been woken from a deep coma, their eyes red and their lips salivated. Soon, the khatib came out of the back room with pieces of paper at one hand and a long wooden stick at the other. Slowly, he climbed up the mimbar's stairs, a chubby fellow wearing a long black robe and a loosely tied serban, the muazzin waited for him to give his salam to the day's jemaah first before saying the second azan, his voice sounded so menacing and so sweet at the same time; it is hard to believe that he was near 70. The khatib sat down on the mimbar's chair; the jemaah that day came from all over the county to listen to this particular imam's khutbah, and one of the biggest jemaah ever for the mosque it was too, for that day's khutbah was his last one here for the mosque; starting next week, he will be transferred to some other place still pending the decision of the JAIS committee. The khatib, a relatively young man compared to the reserve imams and the muazzin, was taken action upon for going against the state's standard regulations with regards to the khutbah's content; in several occasions, he felt that the text given to him by the state was not relevant to the current happenings of the locality, thus, he opt to address the more pertinent issues to the sleepy jemaah, sometimes resulting in a fiery khutbah that no one dared to ignore its presentation. The jemaah liked his khutbah, for the first time, local folks looked forward to listening to what the khatib has to say, no longer were they sleeping; the mosque received a jump in attendance for its solat fardhu and participation for its after-isyaa study classes.

"Dan barangsiapa berkata-kata sedang khatib membaca khutbah..."

The next khatib appointed by JAIS to the position was a graduate fresh out of his madrassah, sent to the mosque in part to the reason that he needed the years of practical training as an imam, and he was an out-of-towner, too; and never again was the solat Jumaat as entertaining to the jemaah as before.

*****

"Soto! Soto! Mee kari! Mee kari!"
"Sate! Sate! 25 sen secucuk! 25 sen!"

The main staging ground was divided into two parts; one, along the small gravel road leading to the actual stage, the street vendor's haven, where steaming hot food was sold from makeshift stalls and the back of minivans to the passing-by on-lookers; two, the actual stage itself, where an elevated platform made out of plywood was erected and a few wedding-style canvas canopies sheltered the VIP seats from possibly falling coconuts, surrounding the main stage were bulky speakers as tall as a house. Both the staging and the vendors area were packed with people, and especially the staging area, where it was shoulder-to-shoulder, not a even needle could go through; people were walking to and from the main ground, some who had arrived earlier and set up their seats on the ground in front of the stage suddenly felt hungry and got up and fought their way to the vendors area, and some who thought that a wholesome and fulfilling dinner is a good idea before the start of the ceramah finally finished their meal and now had to find their sitting spot in the already crowded stage area. Dad and I had no trouble with the crowd; we were at the back holding the kids together while Mom paved the way upfront for us to get through. Finally, we found a suitable spot for the whole family, right under the football goal post, quite far away from the main stage, but the speakers could reach us at the back, and if we craned our necks a bit, we could still see who was doing what, and that was enough. Dad brought along several pieces of old newspaper sheets from the storeroom and placed them neatly into large squares on the ground for us to sit, while Mom swam her way towards the vendors area to get some food before the ceramah.

"Ayah, lama lagi ke nak start ceramahnya?"
"Kejap lagi -- Hah! Itu! Ustaznya, nampak?"

It was a typical format for a ceramah: a famous politician, a funny ustaz, and a local party strongman. The famous politician, often of symbolic importance to the majlis, sat in the middle of the VIP seats, looking down on the jam-packed audience sitting on the dirt, he strongly felt that he was the one who made this happen, a tremendous success on his behalf to rally such a gargantuan amount of people to support the cause of his party's political dreams; the man was invited out of respect, for he hold the district under his claws of influence, the first son of the kampong to break through to the capitol, a dedicated bureaucrat for the uneducated commoners. He laughed a little, smiled a little, but all that he was doing that night was to show that he was present and accounted for, and that he was there with the local folks who had voted him into office; there he was, doing his job, carrying out their mandate. Next to him, sitting a bit closer to the podium, and with a backup microphone in his hand, the party strongman played the part of the ceramah's master of the ceremony -- the MC -- and he tried his best at it that night, keeping his cool tight under the collar. The man was running for a state government candidacy on the party's ticket in the upcoming election, and he needed all the support that he could get, and although a well-established family man and a promising entrepreneur, his yellow brick road to an elected office is filled with thorns. Like the veteran sitting next to him, the party strongman's main goals for that night were presence, presence, presence; the ceramah an advantage to him politically.

"Hahaha!"
"Hahaha!"
"Hahaha!"
"Hahaha -- kelakar ustaz ni!"

Dad was laughing so loud that he threw his stocky body back and forth with such vigor that the car keys jumped out of his chest pocket and onto his thigh. The other older men near us, some came all alone and some came with their children and wives, they too laughed the loudest of laughter; their faces were bright red, their heads bobbing up and down. Mom had just arrived with bundles of thin red plastic dangling from both her hands; she brought us warm food, mee goreng for the kids, and assorted kuih kampong for the husband, and apam balik for Fairuz and I. She missed the ustaz's joke, and none of us were able to explain it to her at the moment she asked us for it -- we were either too busy stuffing our face with food, or laughing our heads off like crazed monkeys. The ustaz, although I am pretty sure that his knowledge of the Koran and the Hadiths are vast and deep, is known for his humorous side, and the seemingly innate ability of his to move a crowd as big as they can give it to him to explode into an uproar of chuckle so loud that the police had to come a-knocking, that alone made him a celebrity. He smartly intertwined factual religious anecdotes with that of his sarcastic observations and a pinch of his wealthy experience as a naughty brat who created havoc in the kampong; the funny ustaz had found the perfect ingredient to nail his audience to the ground, every time, as skeptic as they can be sometimes, he'd never fail to get their attention. I wondered what type of a comedian he could've been.

"Hahaha!"
"Hahaha!"

There were bright lights everywhere, despite the dark cover of the night, and the food was steaming hot, delicious and cheap. The place was packed with families from all over the state and more, and their little children ran around the staging ground, playing police-and-robber, as the parents sat on old newspapers spread on the dirt, enjoying the informative and quick-witted ceramah by the funny ustaz. Front and back, now and then, hysterical laughter would break out and fall onto the attentive audience. The VIPs would smile and giggle along with the local townsfolk, acknowledging the ustaz's remarks. Food vendors, who were busy with customers wanting this and that, they heard the joke, but only faintly through the open-air speakers, and they chuckled a little, as they counted the cash and coins.

"Hahaha!"

I never thought religion could be that entertaining; the closest thing to a circus.