The Malaysian Insider
By Dina Zaman
By Dina Zaman
NOV 25 — Inter-racial relationships and marriages in Malaysia can be fraught with peril and heartbreak. The lovers have to face opposition from their parents and family members, and when one of the partners has to convert to Islam, it is a guarantee for migraine.
Falling in love with a non-Muslim man has its comic moments. And it is precisely these moments that my girlfriends and I bond stronger, because dating an apek, so to speak, has its Hollywood moments. We laugh and cry, and commiserate with each other. Yes, misery loves company, and a sense of the ludicrous makes us view love, race and religion in a very different light.
We get very understanding friends who say it is good that we are dating non-Muslim men, for it is dakwah. The very fact that these men will convert to Islam one day, for whatever reason, is good enough and we women are doing a good job gathering more Muslims into the fold.
Falling in love with a non-Muslim man has its comic moments. And it is precisely these moments that my girlfriends and I bond stronger, because dating an apek, so to speak, has its Hollywood moments. We laugh and cry, and commiserate with each other. Yes, misery loves company, and a sense of the ludicrous makes us view love, race and religion in a very different light.
We get very understanding friends who say it is good that we are dating non-Muslim men, for it is dakwah. The very fact that these men will convert to Islam one day, for whatever reason, is good enough and we women are doing a good job gathering more Muslims into the fold.
Er. Okay.
Then you get a few rabid Muslim men who decide they will woo you to save your soul.
“But I don’t want to be saved,” a friend said, perplexed by her friend’s sudden interest in her. “I just wanna marry my Mat Salleh boyfriend and have babies.”
Still, no matter how modern we errant Malay girls may seem for transgressing, for falling in love with a Chinese/Indian/Caucasian/Monkey-man, we don’t have the balls to run off overseas and have one of those marriages. These men will have to convert, somehow.
This, of course, leads to many late-night coffees and pecah-kepala discussions on how to convert our non-Muslim boyfriends.
Some are direct: they pepper their homes with pamphlets on Islam and become the new Messiahs. They drag their hapless men to all the ceramahs and meet with religious people. They even look for gentle doctors to scalp their men’s nether regions.
Some are not so direct: they approach the issue of conversion softly. They start inviting their men to meet other relatives and family members. They charm their men into seeing a new way of life. They buy baju Melayu, they feed him Malay food, they seduce their men into conversion.
But what happens if the men they love are hardheaded stone-cold non-believers?
This is where stealth mode and drastic measures come in.
He comes to visit the Malay girl (not me, okay) he is in love with. He thinks you are this amusing creative person who has batty ideas. He asks for tea and cheesecake and you, the demure Malay girl that you really are, dash to the kitchen. You make his favourite tea but with a dash. You pour in half a cup of Air Yasin/Zam-zam/Musafar into his tea, and then serve him it.
“Wah. Damn kow la your tea. Very nice. May I have some more?”
So you serve him more tea laced with all the Quranic verses swimming in it.
One month later, he still has yet to convert.
Your mother calls you up to find out how the stealth mode is working out. (Not my mother, okay.)
“He’s still an effin’ atheist, Mummy,” you say.
You can hear your mother trying to stifle her laughter.
Two months later, he really loves you, your tea and cheesecake, and you’re sitting on the chair with the bottle of Air Yasin/Zam-zam/Musafar on your lap, staring at it incredulously, because he still does not believe in God. But because you’re an ostrich, you just bury your head in the sand and figure Allah will pave the way.
Sometimes, parents who oppose the union can turn political.
Now this happened to a friend whose parents were ultras and almost had a coronary when their beloved daughter told them she was going to marry a Chinese man. The father, for your information, had been part of the May 13 riots and had turun padang to sembelih the Chinese. Let’s just say it wasn’t even dramatic. It was… combustive.
Mother slapped the Pendatang.
Pendatang yelled back, "Oi, I’m Malaysian okay! You are Pendatang too!"
My friend tried to break up the fight. The neighbours came out of their homes to observe the fray.
The fight got more ugly.
More name-calling. After using up epithets like “Pendatang”, “Kafir”, “Cina tongkang”, her mother mustered one more insult.
“You. You. YOU… SPACE ALIEN!”
I am not making this up.
So what do girls like us do when poo hits the fan?
Macam-macam. Trial separations. Date other men (though in your case the man has this unerring ability of knowing that you are straying. He must have some sami tucked somewhere-lah). Ponder on life as an old maid. Actually spinsterhood sounds like a more calm and attractive option.
Love in Malaysia.
It can be tough.
The writer does not know which gives her more headaches: inter-racial romances or getting back into the game.
Then you get a few rabid Muslim men who decide they will woo you to save your soul.
“But I don’t want to be saved,” a friend said, perplexed by her friend’s sudden interest in her. “I just wanna marry my Mat Salleh boyfriend and have babies.”
Still, no matter how modern we errant Malay girls may seem for transgressing, for falling in love with a Chinese/Indian/Caucasian/Monkey-man, we don’t have the balls to run off overseas and have one of those marriages. These men will have to convert, somehow.
This, of course, leads to many late-night coffees and pecah-kepala discussions on how to convert our non-Muslim boyfriends.
Some are direct: they pepper their homes with pamphlets on Islam and become the new Messiahs. They drag their hapless men to all the ceramahs and meet with religious people. They even look for gentle doctors to scalp their men’s nether regions.
Some are not so direct: they approach the issue of conversion softly. They start inviting their men to meet other relatives and family members. They charm their men into seeing a new way of life. They buy baju Melayu, they feed him Malay food, they seduce their men into conversion.
But what happens if the men they love are hardheaded stone-cold non-believers?
This is where stealth mode and drastic measures come in.
He comes to visit the Malay girl (not me, okay) he is in love with. He thinks you are this amusing creative person who has batty ideas. He asks for tea and cheesecake and you, the demure Malay girl that you really are, dash to the kitchen. You make his favourite tea but with a dash. You pour in half a cup of Air Yasin/Zam-zam/Musafar into his tea, and then serve him it.
“Wah. Damn kow la your tea. Very nice. May I have some more?”
So you serve him more tea laced with all the Quranic verses swimming in it.
One month later, he still has yet to convert.
Your mother calls you up to find out how the stealth mode is working out. (Not my mother, okay.)
“He’s still an effin’ atheist, Mummy,” you say.
You can hear your mother trying to stifle her laughter.
Two months later, he really loves you, your tea and cheesecake, and you’re sitting on the chair with the bottle of Air Yasin/Zam-zam/Musafar on your lap, staring at it incredulously, because he still does not believe in God. But because you’re an ostrich, you just bury your head in the sand and figure Allah will pave the way.
Sometimes, parents who oppose the union can turn political.
Now this happened to a friend whose parents were ultras and almost had a coronary when their beloved daughter told them she was going to marry a Chinese man. The father, for your information, had been part of the May 13 riots and had turun padang to sembelih the Chinese. Let’s just say it wasn’t even dramatic. It was… combustive.
Mother slapped the Pendatang.
Pendatang yelled back, "Oi, I’m Malaysian okay! You are Pendatang too!"
My friend tried to break up the fight. The neighbours came out of their homes to observe the fray.
The fight got more ugly.
More name-calling. After using up epithets like “Pendatang”, “Kafir”, “Cina tongkang”, her mother mustered one more insult.
“You. You. YOU… SPACE ALIEN!”
I am not making this up.
So what do girls like us do when poo hits the fan?
Macam-macam. Trial separations. Date other men (though in your case the man has this unerring ability of knowing that you are straying. He must have some sami tucked somewhere-lah). Ponder on life as an old maid. Actually spinsterhood sounds like a more calm and attractive option.
Love in Malaysia.
It can be tough.
The writer does not know which gives her more headaches: inter-racial romances or getting back into the game.
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