Return to the East Coast: Family, Faith, and the Yellow House
I’ve taken a short break from posting on my blog these past two weeks—not out of neglect, but because I took a trip to the East Coast to visit siblings and old friends. I needed a break from routine—time away from my two children and our cats, which have somehow multiplied from one to six in my absence. Life has gained another dimension now, especially with my son Karim receiving a scooter from his boss—a generous gift—and the upcoming arrival of a new car we’ve purchased, though it’s currently out of stock. Buying a car that's out of stock—just another quirky detail of life.
Life, after all, is about running through every pothole to reach the destination, sometimes even taking a tumble or two to wake up to the reality we seek. Yet the journey never truly ends—until the final curtain falls.
Arriving at the Kuala Terengganu bus terminal after a 7-8 hour ride from Georgetown, I found only RM15 in my wallet. It reminded me of my younger days—being truly on the road again. Except this time, I wasn’t entirely alone; I had friends and family here in this East Coast town, a place I’ve known since I was twelve. I had moved from Penang to live with my birth family after being adopted and raised by my uncle and aunts since birth.
I was a teenager when I arrived in Kuala Terengganu in 1962 and began secondary school six miles from the old town. The town has since changed—some changes for the better, others... well, what can I say? Development, progress, growth. And I am growing old.
Spare the finer details—I made my way an hour north to the small town of Setiu, where my sister lives next door to her daughter, staying close to her granddaughters. Both homes were recently built, though their owners may live or work elsewhere. Setiu is flood-prone, and though the monsoon season had been relatively dry, rain returned a few days into my visit, and one morning I had to take a different road due to flooding.
I stayed with my nephew, Mohammad Rafi, and his family at their bakery home. They welcomed me warmly—especially Rafi's wife, originally from Islamabad in India. She’s a wonderful cook, and I was treated to her finest dishes—her chapatis were my favorite. I spent a quiet week with them, mostly as an observer, witnessing the family's day-to-day rhythm, their struggles, and their resilience.
I hold deep admiration for my nephew. Despite suffering from a long-term infection—a flesh-eating condition affecting both ankles—he manages to raise a strong, loving family. Each night, I watched him tend to his wounds, cleaning them with antiseptic and wrapping them with gauze. He’s a devout Muslim, his forehead darkened by years of prostration in prayer. A voracious reader, he is well-informed and can converse intelligently on just about any topic.
Now over fifty, Rafi has six children. He inherited his father's bakery and has passed it down to his children. His eldest daughter is an architect, his second is training to be a lawyer, and his eldest son will likely take over the family business. The bakery’s name often raises eyebrows—Kedai Roti Israil, or Israil’s Bakery. Some assume it has political or religious connotations, but Israil was simply the name of Rafi’s father.
Most of my friends in Terengganu were tied up in their daily routines, which I understood. Still, I managed to revisit Pulau Duyong and pay my respects to Puan Rohani, the widow of my dear friend Awi, founder of Awi’s Yellow House. We had a brief conversation before she headed off for a dentist appointment.
Originally from France, Christine Rohani Longuet arrived in Duyong in 1971 to build a traditional sailing boat with the help of local craftsmen. She planned to sail around the world—but the outbreak of the Vietnam War changed her course. She returned to Duyong and eventually married Awi (Wan Othman), the eldest son of the local imam. Their bond was forged through a shared love of boats, the sea, and the cultural beauty of Duyong life.
Puan Rohani is now in her late 70s and still deeply engaged in cultural and environmental work. She’s been instrumental in preserving the heritage of Pulau Duyong—founding a local library, establishing the Duyong Cultural and Information Center, and continuing research into traditional herbal knowledge. To me, she is the living cultural historian of Pulau Duyong—the keeper of its maritime spirit and oral history.
The Yellow House: A Cultural Beacon
The French lady who left behind her world to live the wild life in Terengganu gave her heart to Duyong. She spent her life raising cultural and environmental awareness in a community often caught between tradition and modernity.
The Yellow House was once a meeting ground for brilliant minds—musicians, writers, travelers, and thinkers who sought peace and creative solitude. Among the regular visitors were Mr. and Mrs. Boyo and another lovely woman I only remember as Mrs. Mariam. Backpackers from all corners of the globe came here for the quiet, the river breeze, and the wisdom shared around a simple meal or under a starlit night.
But today, the Yellow House is in dire need of repair. Built upon the banks of the Terengganu River among mangroves, it is slowly being reclaimed by nature. Unless something is done, the whole structure may one day collapse into the river. It was Awi’s dream to offer visitors a sense of what it means to live by the river—his Yellow House was an homage to rustic living, a retreat for those seeking to replenish their souls.
My friend Awi was as charismatic and passionate as his wife. A tireless worker, he poured himself into building and maintaining the Yellow House. Known to the local children (my own included) as Aboh, he was a living folk hero—sometimes rough, always loving, a force of nature in his own right. I was fortunate to spend nearly three years of my life by his side, in that unique space of creativity and reflection.
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