Late Nights

Mysara Aljaru

i. Awal.

Salam. Welcome.
Peace be upon you. We seek not the ignorant. [Al-Qasas 28:55]

siapa nama kamu? what do you live for? who do you love? / sometimes, we confuse submission for love. sayang, do you think of him? or Him? / but why can’t it be Her? Or Them? / shhh, that’s blasphemy.

ii. Selamat & Semoga Berjaya.

12.30am, Singapore.

It had been a long day, and she was just looking forward to taking a hot shower before a nice long sleep. Her fingers tapped the screen of her phone absent-mindedly as she kept a lookout for her ride. The sound of a car driving in broke the silence of the quiet night and she sighed softly in relief. Finally.

In the car, she leaned back against her seat, taking a glance at the driver. ‘Woodlands?’ he asked. She confirmed the location as he looked at her through the rear-view mirror. Usually, she didn’t mind the quick conversations, but she was looking forward to silence as she headed back home. Alas, that was not on the driver’s mind.

‘Don’t mind me asking, are you Malay?’

She glanced at him. ‘Yes,’ she answered politely, but quickly – hoping that he wouldn’t continue the conversation. Sometimes she wonders; how is it that in this supposedly modern, thriving metropolis, identity is still such an issue for some? Did it matter if she was Malay? She closed her eyes and sighed softly, reminding herself that he could merely be curious, that there was no malice intended.

‘Going back home? No boyfriend to send you back?’

She laughed. ‘No lah, still single.’

The streetlights shone on their faces, and she could see a small smile on his face.

‘Oh really ah? I thought Malay girls all like boyfriends with motorbikes?’

Ah, the classic question. She found that idea rather peculiar. Honestly, she would not say no to a free ride after a long day of work, regardless of the vehicle. Of course, he didn’t know she had strict parents who would have given her quite an earful if they ever caught her riding pillion on a guy’s bike. The few times guys had sent her back on their bikes, she had them drop her off a few hundred metres away from her HDB block  – in case her mother decided to stand outside the corridor and peek downstairs from their tenth-storey flat. Just in case, of course. You never know with mothers.

She could not help but notice the look of surprise when the driver found out that she was in her late twenties and was not married. It was not a surprise to her though; a single, unmarried woman at her age seemed to be a rare sight for people outside her community. And she could not help but wonder; was that how people determined our worth? A value dependent on our marital status, or motherhood?

‘But ya lah, a bit hard to find Malay men. Most of them take drugs.’

She was not sure if she had to laugh at that comment, or if she had to be horrified and angry. Instead, she sighed to herself and looked out the window. In these situations she knew such comments would come regardless, but they still always took her by surprise.

Her mind drifted off, eyes fixated on the streetlights, mirages looking like they were bringing them into another dimension. Maybe one where she didn’t have to deal with people’s ignorance. Sometimes, she wondered what it would be like to just exist. With no care, with no identity, with no worries. To simply be. She could hear him talking, but she simply stopped listening. He was mumbling something about his Malay friends and drugs. Her eyes continued fixating on the lights, and soon the cluster of HDB blocks.

They were soon reaching her place. About time.

She stared at a streetlight in the corner. As they drove closer however, she realised it wasn’t a streetlight, but a CCTV. She couldn’t help but smile as the car drove by it. She continued looking right at it. Of course, she didn’t think they would capture her face from that distance, but it always made her feel better to see the cameras. As if she was telling them, ‘Hey, I’m watching you, too.’

Every day of her existence felt like an unwanted publicity day, if one could describe it as that. Behave yourself, dress properly, speak properly. Remember to smile, even on the crappiest of days. Your identity and how you represent yourself is tied to your community – make one wrong move and it’s on them just as much as it is on you.

Forget CCTVs; sometimes it feels like society watches you even more than God himself. At least in His eyes, you’re a faithful servant here to accept fate.

But sometimes, humans sin. And you break out of your usual character, the usual script.

The car arrived at the car park facing her block. She took her bag and glanced at him as she exited the car, the sides of her lips twitching.

‘By the way, it's interesting that your Malay friends are all drug addicts. Takes one to know one.’

iii. Suci.

1.30am, South Jakarta.

Running his fingers through his hair as he took a seat, he was distinctively taller than the woman opposite him. Hair almost reaching his shoulders and a cigarette dangling from his lips, he came across as a bit of a contradiction. Well-kept but also rugged. He could almost pass off as a celebrity. Maybe the star of an Indonesian soap opera. He leaned back against his chair as they spoke, flicking the tip of his cigarette gently once in a while.

‘Mas, two bubur istimewa and two hot teas please.’ The pair sat in silence for a moment, him watching her in amusement. Her eyes seemed to be scanning the warung; from the cars passing by on the road next to the pavement, to the people next to them chatting away. She seemed to be in her own world, only breaking out of her personal thoughts when the two bowls of warm porridge and tea were served in front of them.

She was petite, with a serious and quiet aura. As he spoke however, her lips curved into a smile and a burst of laughter escaped her lips. Her shoulders relaxed, and she leaned closer to him. It was clear through her accent that she wasn’t local. Regional maybe, but she definitely wasn’t local.

‘Do you see yourself living here?’

She paused at his question. Did she like it in Jakarta? The answer to that was definitely a yes. Would she, however, pack her bags and move here immediately? She pondered for a moment, stirring her bubur as if she would find the answer in it. She could feel his eyes on her, as he waited patiently for her answer.

‘Ideally, yes. But practically speaking…’ Her voice drifted off, as a small grin formed on his face. He knew where her answer was headed. She loved the people, she loved the city – but it all depended on whether she was able secure a job that paid as much as she did back in Singapore.

She was as practical as one could get. She had dreams just as anyone would, but she had a tendency to think twice. Maybe it was the mental and emotional conditioning that came with growing up in her country – always be prepared, they said – or maybe she was naturally a little cautious, but she always weighed her options before deciding.

He, however, was what one could describe as her complete opposite. He wasn’t reckless, maybe he was more carefree? He simply saw the importance of seizing the moment. You never know if the opportunity would come again, he’d argue. He shifted his attention back to her. She smiled softly at him.

‘But I definitely see myself here somewhere, somehow. I just have to figure it out,’ she continued, sounding more confident this time around.

Her gaze went back to him. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing she did. Three more days, and she was going to head back home. She glanced at her watch – make that two days, actually. ‘When I go back…’ she blurted out and paused, trying to find the right words in her head. ‘Are we still going to be in contact?’ She knew he understood her question perfectly well.

‘Of course, you think too much,’ he replied immediately.

Despite knowing that he was probably right, she would still argue that she was more practical than anything when it came to relationships. She didn’t really believe in love at first sight. She believed in love, of course – she wasn’t a sceptic. But she believed falling in love with a person was an action that was conscious and continuous.

She absent-mindedly ran her fingers across her own hidden tattoo on her lower back.

‘Peace be upon you, we seek not the ignorant. Al-Qasas 28:55,’ he recited out loud. She looked up away from her reverie, surprised that he remembered after only seeing it once. It was her favourite verse in the Quran.
 
‘What’s the significance?’

‘Just a reminder to pick my battles.’

‘Must be hard to be a minority there.’

‘No country is perfect,’ she shrugged. ‘How do you deal with it?’

‘Jesus taught me to respond to any form of hatred with love.’

‘Spoken like a true Christian,’ she teased. ‘Be kind to one another, be tender-hearted, forgive one another, as God in Christ forgave you. Ephesians 4:32, right?’

This time, it was his turn to glance at her in surprise. Sociology of Religion classes, she explained – it was one of those moments in her life when she was trying to figure out her own identity and place in the world.

She laughed before smiling widely at him and as if it was contagious, he laughed as well.

‘Do you believe in fate?’ she asked him. She glanced at his arm. The sleeve of his T-shirt was covering half the cross he had tattooed a few years ago.

‘I believe I’m where God wants me to be,’ he replied simply.

She wondered if he was a secret hopeless romantic, that he still believed in ‘the one’ despite having many heartbreaks. She took a sip of her tea, her gaze still fixed on him, trying to hide a small smile that was forming on her lips. For a second, she felt as if she was 17 again, having a forbidden crush on a devilishly handsome older boy.

Perhaps, it was fate that brought them together in the first place. He, the son of God, and her, God’s servant.

iv. Akhir.

When people talk about love, they talk about first dates, first kisses, realising the first time you’ve fallen in love with your ‘forever person’.

They talk about forbidden love, but hardly how your existence is an act of love itself. How your existence was shunned just because your parents didn’t meet the income bracket of what a happily married couple should fall under. They don’t talk about how it somehow doesn’t exist, if you don’t look like them, talk like them, behave like them. That anytime two people that look like you fall in love, it’s a burden on society.

They talk about a mother’s love and sacrifice. About a mother’s sweat and tears as she puts her son through a prestigious law school overseas. But not when she’s dark-skinned and poor. Her tears mean little to nothing as her son requests to holds her hand for the last time. One mistake and it forbids you from loving forever.

When they talk about love, sometimes they talk about heartache. They talk about getting hurt by the person you love the most.

But they don’t talk about how your existence is an act of love and resistance. They don’t talk about channelling the anger into love, because loving your community is loving yourself.

Mysara Aljaru is a writer, creative and researcher. Mysara was previously a journalist and documentary producer and has worked with various research institutions such as Centre for Research on Islamic and Malay Affairs (RIMA) and The Institute of Policy Studies (IPS). Mysara has showcased and performed at Objectifs, The Substation, ArtScience Museum and Singapore Art Week 2022.