Cast From The Herd: Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia

 

Cast From The Herd:  Memories of Matriarchal Malaysia

M. Bakri Musa

Excerpt # 6:  Mandul Leaders

Continuing on with his intriguing analysis of Chairul Anwar’s Aku poem, Cikgu Noh dismissed Malay leaders and sultans as manduls. We pupils remained quiet; another metaphor!

I knew what mandul meant, foreman, the one who barked orders to the already tired coolies ordering them to move even faster in the heat of the day. Chairil was agitating his people to defy their mandul so they would be spared from the slaughterhouse.

“Cast yourself from the herd,” Noh exhorted. “Defy your mandul if they are mandul.” 

Another poetic play on words! Seeing our puzzled looks, he asked what ranchers do with their mandul bulls. “Sell or slaughter them,” he answered himself. “They can’t breed!”

That sure was a circuitous and devastating explanation of the other meaning of mandul. What? Slaughter our mandul leaders? That would be treason; we would end up being slaughtered. Noh was exhorting us to defy our leaders, including presumably him. We dared not defy this champion boxer, not even a former one. Besides, he had already captured our imagination; we would follow him. This boxer of a bull was a fine specimen; he was far from being mandul.

“Read that last line again,” he commanded. We were about to commence our group murmuring when he read it aloud himself, as he had intended to do anyway. “I want to live for a thousand years, no less!” 

He clinched his lips and paused, displaying an unexpected caution. “Our faith tells us that our time on this earth is but temporary.” After an uncharacteristic but noticeable hesitation, “We are told to welcome death, to not be afraid of it.” 

He was now into religion; this could be a minefield. He paced back and forth. Then, “Is Chairil afraid of death when he asserted that he wanted to live for a thousand years?” Without waiting for our reply, “Was he afraid to face his Maker? Was he being blasphemous?”

Boom! Boom! Boom! Three devastating punches in quick succession. We had not yet recovered from the first and he already fired his next, and then the third. This was how he must be in the ring. Pity his opponent! By this time I knew he was not expecting an answer from us. Surely such lofty philosophical ponderings were above our grade level. 

I was right, for he continued. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we blindly follow our mandul leaders, we too would end up being slaughtered.”

We remained silent, unaccustomed to being addressed with such formality. This was a heavy load, and so early in the day and year.

“Remember this wisdom of our elders,” he wagged his finger. “Even the dumbest buffalo, once it had escaped, would not be easy to corral again.” He paused. “The first thing that critter would do is pace the perimeter, test its strength, and search for gaps. Your world would be irreversibly changed once you have cast yourself from your herd.”

This was not a cry for freedom. Far from it! Chairil was asserting–no, demanding–his right to it. He challenged us to defy our leaders if they were to tread on our freedom. Substituting one oppressor for another–Japanese occupiers for Dutch colonialists–was no freedom. Nor the promise of later freedom justified curtailing the current meager one, as the Japanese did to Malays. As Chairil Anwar warned, our leaders were just as likely to trample on our freedoms as those colonialists and occupiers.

This young poet was a rebel, but with a noble cause–the emancipation of his people from their own leaders, the liberation of docile peasants from their imperious sultans. A rebel with a cause! Where had I heard that phrase before?

No, I had not. That matinee I saw a while back starring James Dean was “Rebel Without A Cause.” Chairil Anwar was a James Dean with a cause. No! Dean was a Chairil Anwar without a cause. Chairul’s was an arrogant assertion of rugged individualism and fearless break from stifling traditions. Even his poetry broke conventional forms. The brutal Japanese could not intimidate him, and he was contemptuous of his own feudal leaders. No wonder he wanted to live for a thousand years and bear the stings of bullets and pains of wounds. His cause will remain so long as humans fear to stray from their herd or take on their leaders. His would take a thousand years, and more!

I too now wanted to cast myself from my herd, to seek my own pasture even if it would take me a thousand years. My hero would not be some battle-scarred old warrior lionized in our hagiographies like Hang Tuah but a young poet–Chairil Anwar. My mission was to change my destiny that had been defined by my birth and culture, and to break the constraints forced upon me by my leaders.

Emboldened, I felt like a newly-commissioned officer tasked with a critical battle that could alter the course of the war. It did not escape me that Chairil Anwar’s immortal poem was penned in the year of my birth–1943–and that he was from my Minangkabau tribe. Propitious! 

Chairil’s stirring lines reverberated in me. Only the ringing of the school bell interrupted the pounding in my chest. As the class stood up to say our customary “Thank you, teacher!” there was again a collective hesitation. Should we instead say, “Terima kasih, Cikgu?” 

That awkward silence did not faze him. “Terima kasih kerana sudi mendengar!” (Thank you for being so kind to listen!) 

Wow, a teacher thanking us! How weird, and a substitute teacher at that! 

I had anticipated a lazy drift downstream led by a lackadaisical substitute skipper. Instead I had one who was very much engaged; he steered us through the rapids without even a whimper of protest from us. In truth, we dared not. 

Yes, there were many white-knuckle moments but I was invigorated by the sprays and bumps. On to more whitewater runs! Oh God, let not what I had just been through be a wispy illusion, or worse, a cruel tease. I remembered only too well how meek my grandfather’s bull buffalo was long after I had freed the rope from its nose-ring. The huge critter behaved as if it was still tethered. 

I wanted to be challenged, to take leave of my herd, and to seek new pastures. I yearned to be freed from the tiring chores and petty squabbles that defined my village life. Liberate me from the stifling constraints of my feudal traditions where my destiny was defined at and by my birth. Unshackle me from the numbing mindless rote memorization that passed for learning at my school. I was now intolerant of those constraints. 

Chairul Anwar’s powerful words had jolted me out of my comfortable adolescent fantasy world. My coconut shell had been toppled, and I yearned to explore the now wide open world. Chairul Anwar had ignited the fire of freedom and merantau (wanderlust) in me. I was determined to keep it burning, and burning bright. The good news that morning was not my getting a substitute teacher, rather that he had brought Chairil Anwar’s immortal poem to my world. 

Next:  Excerpt # 7:  At Last, In Long Pants!