Title: Morning Reverie and the Shadows of Jerejak
When I woke up this morning, it was from a dream—one that left me feeling uplifted both spiritually and physically. I can’t recall the exact details, but the emotional residue was elation. It lingered with me as I slipped into my morning practice: sitting in silence, saying my prayers, and flowing effortlessly into yoga stretches. My body moved with grace and ease, as if every cell remembered its purpose.
Outside my living room window, the sky was overcast. A cool breeze swept gently through the house. My daughter’s alarm was ringing endlessly, but she only pulled the blanket tighter around her and burrowed deeper into sleep.
With a warm cup of coffee in hand, I sat at my computer and queued up a soft tune to accompany my thoughts—“In the Mood for Love” by Shigeru Umebayashi. I had never heard of it before, but the violin pierced something tender in me, and I found myself waltzing in my head. Not a bad way to start the morning.
The wind died down. The sky began to clear. No rain after all—just a false flag.
As I gazed out toward the horizon, I caught sight of the sea... and the silhouette of Pulau Jerejak. The island where I once worked for three years as the ferry terminal supervisor, serving the Jerejak Resort and Spa. The resort is still there, I hear, but I’ve no idea who runs it now or how it’s faring.
My time there was as eventful as most of my past jobs. When I finally left, I swore never to work under anyone again.
One figure who stood out—perhaps for all the wrong reasons—was the resort manager. He carried the ego of someone born to privilege, being the son of a former Chief of Police in Penang, and having spent time studying in Chicago. Most days, he was either drunk or hungover, and he ruled the place like a personal fiefdom. Aggressive and often foul-mouthed, he created a toxic atmosphere, especially for the predominantly Malay Muslim staff. His drinking and behavior didn’t sit well with them, nor did it with me.
But in Malaysia, as in many parts of the world, connections sometimes trump competence. When you’re the son of someone powerful, you’re shielded from consequences, even if your actions are slowly sinking the ship. This, I’ve found, is the general fate of many Malay-owned businesses: ego overshadows accountability, and pride blinds leadership.
Pulau Jerejak—its name rolls off the tongue softly in Malay, yet it carries a weighty past.
Once a penal colony, it served as a transit point for Indian and Chinese laborers brought in by the British East India Company to work in the rubber plantations and tin mines of Malaya. From here, they were processed and dispatched across the peninsula. During World War II, the island became a holding camp for Japanese prisoners; many lost their heads to the samurai blades. Later, it housed a leprosy colony—its old buildings still stand, silent relics of isolation and suffering. For a time, it was also a prison for political dissidents and drug offenders.
But perhaps the most curious legacy of Jerejak lies in the spiritual realm. Among locals, it’s known as a dumping ground for spirits—jin, bad luck, and curses. Shamans, dukuns, and bomohs would perform rituals to banish malevolent forces to this island. Pulau Jerejak became, in essence, a spiritual landfill. No wonder it carries an air of mystery and unease even today.
To look at it now—green, peaceful, almost serene—you wouldn’t guess its haunted past. But I remember. And as I sit here, sipping coffee and listening to a violin croon through my speakers, I wonder if healing such a place is possible. Or if it, like so many wounded souls, simply carries its scars beneath the surface, waiting for someone to see them clearly.
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