To settle the matter—and perhaps to silence the ripple it caused—I was officially readopted by my birth parents. They were now living in the East Coast of Terengganu, where my eldest brother, fresh from his studies in England, had begun teaching at the local secondary school. The rest of the family had already moved on. Only two of my older brothers and I remained behind in Penang.
That changed in 1962.
Without much ceremony, I was uprooted from the only home I had known for almost twelve years. Pulled from the arms of the quiet man who had raised me not with rules, but with silence and mindfulness. The man who taught me how to observe the world, to breathe through hardship, to walk gently. The man who had stood between me and a blade, not just a circumcision knife, but the sharp edge of conformity.
He never protested. Never begged. But I could feel the fracture in his spirit, in the way he looked away when I boarded that train.
His silence was the loudest goodbye I have ever heard.
And just like that, I was thrust into a new world—Terengganu in the early '60s. A coastal town hemmed by sea and jungle. A place with its own rhythm, its own dialect, its own subtle ways of reminding you that you were not from there.
I was now officially under the guardianship of my birth parents, but the bond had been broken long ago. I was a stranger returning to a family that had never truly claimed me. My brothers were older, smarter, and had already carved out their places in the world. I was the latecomer, the misfit with a new name and an old soul.
It was the beginning of my teenage life on the East Coast.
And the end of an unspoken chapter in Penang—a chapter filled with gentleness, inner rebellion, and the deep, unwavering love of a man who didn’t need to be my father to be my teacher.
Life in Kuala Terengganu was both agony and ecstasy—though the agony, I must admit, often tipped the scale.
Coming from the multicultural embrace of Georgetown, where faiths mingled like scents in the air, I was unprepared for the sharp edges of a more homogenous society. In Terengganu, the Malay identity was tightly bound to Islam, and any deviation was treated as betrayal. I was once again the anomaly, but here, the stakes were higher. The condemnation was louder. The curiosity is more hostile.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. I had been cast out of a Buddhist upbringing to be returned to a Muslim family in a place where being a "not-quite-Muslim-enough" boy could feel like spiritual treason.
And then there was school.
I was enrolled at Sultan Sulaiman Secondary School, where my eldest brother, home from England, educated, polished, was now the disciplinary master. The enforcer. His presence loomed over me like a shadow I could not outrun. But it wasn’t just his.
My twin brother, who had come ahead of me, had already made a name for himself. Respected. Established. Belonged. The school was his turf, and I was merely the second shadow—quieter, more confused echo.
I was boxed in on all sides. Family above me, twin beside me, society against me.
There were moments I wished I could evaporate—slip into the sea, or disappear into the dense green jungle that bordered the town. But I didn’t. I endured. I watched. I learned how to wear masks. How to drift through judgment. How to retreat into myself without closing the door completely.
The one solace that remained was the faint glow of that secret Buddhist flame my uncle had lit within me. Even in this harsh new environment, it flickered on—faint, but constant. A silent mantra, a remembered stillness, a compassion I tried not to lose.
It was my silent rebellion. My invisible inheritance.
And so, I became Shamsul Bahari bin Abdul Mutalib—a Muslim by decree, by documentation, and by the mark left upon my body in the rite of circumcision. The act was meant to seal my place in the fold, to realign me with my so-called destiny. But flesh can be cut; belonging cannot be forced.
Even with my new name and my new identity, acceptance did not come, especially not from my own mother. Her silence was louder than any accusation. Her glances were often cold, her presence withdrawn. I felt it in every room we shared—the heaviness, the distance. It was as though she was still trying to erase my birth, even as I stood in front of her.
Say what you will about the sanctity of a mother’s love, but mine could never quite open that sacred gate. Maybe it was a shame. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was just the unbearable reminder of a choice she had tried to leave behind in Kampung Selut.
I don’t say this with bitterness. I say it as a truth I’ve lived and grown into. Some mothers carry love like a burden too heavy to give freely. And some sons must find love elsewhere.
For me, that love came quietly, unshakably, from my father. Though now a Muslim by name, he still held the gentle fire of Buddhism in his heart. He never spoke much, but his actions were a balm to my soul. In his eyes, I saw no judgment. In his presence, I felt no rejection. His love was not loud, but it was enough. It reminded me of my uncle—the monk with the stillness. It reminded me that I was still seen, still held, still allowed to be.
And that, sometimes, was all I needed to survive.
Yet life, in all its paradox, has a way of offering solace where you least expect it.
The rustic beauty of the kampungs, the soft rustle of paddy fields behind our wooden house, and the endless stretches of beach brushing up against the South China Sea—all became my quiet sanctuaries. Nature became my therapist. The call of the burung pipit, the scent of wet earth after the monsoon, the rhythm of fishermen hauling their nets at dawn—these were the lullabies that soothed the bruises left by human hearts.
And while I bore the weight of emotional abandonment at home, the outside world extended a different kind of embrace.
I was fortunate to be mentored by two extraordinary men, whose presence in my teenage life cannot be overstated.
One was Dato’ Ariffin Zakaria, then a District Officer, later an adviser to the Sultan. He was sharp-minded, articulate, and carried a quiet dignity. He saw something in me that perhaps even I did not—an untapped potential wrapped in emotional scars. He encouraged me to think, to question, to read beyond what was offered in schoolbooks.
The other was Encik Abu Johan, head of the Religious Department in Kuala Terengganu and my Silat Seni Gayong instructor. He was the embodiment of strength tempered by wisdom. Under his tutelage, I learned not only martial technique but the deeper philosophy behind the art—the spiritual code, the inner discipline. Through him, I understood that true power lies in restraint, and true confidence grows from within.
Between the rice fields and the open sea, between the wisdom of these two men, I slowly began to mend. I was no longer just a boy rejected—I was a student, a fighter, an emerging self.
Through the stewardship of my mentor, Dato’ Ariffin Zakaria, I was granted the kind of access few young men my age could ever dream of. His position within the state government opened doors and passageways into Terengganu’s inner sanctums—its hidden jungles, secret coves, and the raw majesty of its offshore islands, long before they were marked on tourism brochures or Instagram feeds.
In the early 1960s, the islands off the east coast were still largely untouched, pristine sanctuaries of nature where time seemed to pause. Pulau Redang, Kapas, Perhentian, Bidong... names that today echo with resorts and commerce were then sacred spaces teeming with quiet life. The coral reefs glowed with color, the water was clear as glass, and the skies opened like a blessing over our small wooden boats.
Dato’ Ariffin was an avid outdoorsman—part philosopher, part hunter, and full-hearted in his passion for nature. He found peace in the rainforests and purpose in the rhythm of the sea. I was his quiet shadow, learning not only the land but also how to walk upon it with respect. Every weekend became an expedition, either inland toward the dense green lungs of the Malaysian jungle or out into the shimmering blue veins of the South China Sea.
Wherever we went, we were received with grace and reverence, not for who I was, but for who I was with. His influence gave me safe passage into villages and communities that otherwise might have eyed a strange young boy with suspicion. I watched how he treated people—with a firm gentleness, a fairness rooted in integrity. I watched how the land responded to him, as if it too recognized his soul.
In those moments, something in me stirred. It was more than an adventure. It was the seed of belonging, not necessarily to people, but to place. The land, the sea, the wind, and the stars—they became my extended family. And I, a child cast off and recast by circumstance, finally began to feel whole again.
These times spent under the guidance of my mentors—Dato’ Ariffin Zakaria and Encik Abu Johan—were more than just lessons in discipline or exploration. They were doors. Gateways to a life I hadn’t known was possible for someone like me, a boy once nearly discarded.
Through their recommendation and quiet influence, I was offered my first official job—teaching English to the grandchildren of Sultan Ismail Nasiruddin Shah, the then Sultan of Terengganu and grandfather of the current ruler. For a teenage boy with no powerful family name, no stable identity even, this was an extraordinary honor. A validation of worth that had long been buried under layers of rejection and silence.
Sometimes, when the Sultan’s regular caddy was unavailable, I was asked to step in. There I was, walking alongside a monarch on manicured golf greens, quietly observing royal grace from just a few feet away. I was both participant and witness, absorbing the subtleties of class, power, and etiquette—not from books or lectures, but from direct lived experience.
Looking back, those early encounters were more than just fortunate breaks—they were sacred assignments. Each one carved a new possibility into my life’s trajectory. I was no longer just the unwanted twin from Georgetown. I was a boy with a voice, a gift for language, and a heart slowly learning to forgive its own story.
And perhaps most importantly, these experiences added weight to my steps—a sense of belonging, not to any institution or throne, but to a deeper current that ran beneath it all. The Dharma, whispered to me in silence by my uncle, was beginning to ripple out into every moment of my life.
Despite the privileges I had momentarily tasted, I was not qualified to enter higher education. My academic grades—especially in the sciences and mathematics—had held me back, and reality caught up with me quickly. There was no scholarship, no boarding school, no easy path carved ahead. I had to work.
My first official job was as a medical assistant to an American doctor conducting public health research in the interior villages of Terengganu. He was investigating the spread of cholera, malaria, and other rural diseases in a region that, at the time, was barely mapped. I followed him through kampungs tucked between rivers and jungle, helping with blood tests, administering medicine, and jotting down villagers’ symptoms in English.
For a while, I felt like I was part of something important—a bridge between worlds, helping modern science meet ancient suffering.
But as quickly as it had begun, the research ended. The doctor returned to his country, and once again, I was left staring into the void of what next.
That’s when I was hired as a radio operator for Bristow Helicopters, a British company contracted to support oil and gas exploration operations off the coast of Terengganu. They were flying engineers and supplies to and from offshore rigs operated by ESSO Exploration and Continental Oil (CONOCO).
I had never imagined myself wearing a headset, speaking in call signs and aviation codes, coordinating flights above the South China Sea. But there I was—barely out of my teens, manning the radio tower, part of a booming industry that would forever change the coast I grew up on.
The job came with a steady income—and something rarer still: pride. Pride that I could support myself. Pride that I was doing something meaningful. Among my peers, many of whom were still navigating school or waiting for the next chance, I had stepped into a man’s world, not through academic brilliance, but through perseverance and sheer adaptability.
The boy once rejected at birth was now reading out aircraft coordinates over static-crackled airwaves. It wasn’t a throne, but it was a kind of mastery.
Looking back now, I realize that I never really planned my future. My life unfolded like a series of improvisations, each chapter shaped not by ambition but by necessity, survival, or the pull of the unknown. One episode bled into another, sometimes chaotically, but always with the sense that things were happening as they were meant to be—not random, but orchestrated by a deeper current I could only sense but not control.
I spent almost three years with Hagemeyer Trading Company, immersed in the daily grind of business, learning how the world worked behind desks and glass doors. Then, like many pivotal turns in my life, she appeared.
She was a student from the University of Wisconsin–Stevens Point, part of a student exchange program in Malaysia. Intelligent, kind, and curious, she brought with her a quiet confidence and a Western perspective that both intrigued and comforted me. After our marriage, she decided to stay on and lectured at MARA in Kuala Lumpur. By then, our son was born—a beautiful blessing who, at just four months old, changed everything.
But life in Malaysia was beginning to chafe under bureaucratic red tape. As a cross-cultural couple, we were entangled in immigration restrictions and policies that made it difficult for us to breathe freely. I was living and working in Penang; she was in Kuala Lumpur, or sometimes Petaling Jaya, and the physical and emotional distance strained what was still a young marriage.
It became clear—we had to choose a new path. So we decided to move to the United States, hoping for a new beginning, for stability, for freedom. That decision would open another chapter entirely, one that would take me across the Pacific, into the heart of the American Midwest, and into a life far removed from anything I could have imagined as a kampung boy from Georgetown.
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