The Albatross of Blood Ties
What is my higher purpose? What am I truly here to achieve before I depart this mortal plane? I have a mandate to fulfill, or am I obligated to complete a course of action that will benefit others, perhaps even the world? These are tough questions, no doubt. Questions I’ve grappled with ever since I consciously stepped onto this path of self-discovery. And I know I’m not alone—many seekers face them at some point in their lives.
I’ve made excuses. I’ve sought justifications. I've dabbled in spiritual bypassing and rational detours, only to end up back where I began—adrift, uncertain, burdened. There are no definitive answers, just more questions. Yet something within urges me not to give up, not to let the questions go unanswered, even if the answers remain elusive. For those who are awakened, even faintly, to some deeper calling in life, surrendering to spiritual amnesia is not an option.
Life to me is not about survival alone. It is not about how many cars you own or how big a house you live in. And if I needed proof, I only need to reflect on my twin brother's life. On paper, he has done well. To many, he is a man of success and status. But to me, deep down, he is a man displaced, angry, and spiritually adrift. Many might accuse me of envy, but I assure you—there is none. If anything, I wish he could be brought down from his pedestal of material wealth, so that his spiritual posturing might appear less hollow, less staged.
Our twinship, ironically, is a rift rather than a bond. Raised apart for the first twelve years of our lives, we grew up strangers despite being born of the same womb. Our separation wasn’t anyone’s fault. Poverty had its say. Three of us siblings were raised by others—me by my uncle and my dear late auntie, my mother’s sister, who took care of me with love and discipline. My brothers were taken in by Malay and Chinese families, respectively. Our family was fractured not just by poverty, but by necessity.
I have shared these fragments of my upbringing in this blog many times before. And yet, this morning, as I stood by the sink doing the dishes, the ache of my unresolved ties weighed heavy on my chest again. It’s as though a carcass of an albatross is still draped around my neck, its stench seeping through every crevice of my peace. Until I find reconciliation—not just with my twin but with my entire lineage—I suspect I will never know true freedom.
There’s a kind of ancestral karma at play. A spiritual bondage that no amount of zazen or prayer seems to cut through. It’s as if I’m destined to take this grief, guilt, and shame with me to the grave. I cannot help but point out that much of this familial unraveling stemmed from the meddling of in-laws—those who came from outside but took control of our internal dynamics. I will testify to this when I stand before my Lord, if I must.
I’ve resisted sharing this openly for years, afraid of being accused of blame-shifting. But today I crack open the can. The worms have been festering in me for too long. I loved my two eldest brothers deeply, and they have both returned to the Creator. They understood the struggles, the isolation, the fractures in our upbringing. They were estranged from our main family, yes, but they endured. Their wives, too, carried their own silent grievances, which only complicated the picture.
What pains me most is that, in our old age, we siblings rarely sit at the same table, never speak openly of our lives, never allow the healing balm of forgiveness to do its work. The family narrative has been hijacked by in-laws with vested interests, and I, the youngest, am expected to remain silent—especially because I’ve spent much of my life abroad, walking a path deemed “unconventional.”
Every visit to Terengganu becomes a ritual: go see the brothers, like it or not, because Islam demands the preservation of blood ties. Yet often, these visits are marred by suspicion, strained smiles, or false warmth. I am a stranger to their children, unknown, irrelevant. And it cuts deep to see that children are taught to judge an adult based on long-standing bitterness between their parents. Is this what growing up as "good Muslims" looks like?
If I seem harsh, especially toward the in-laws, it is because I’m facing my own demons. I am far from perfect. I know I am not the easiest person to be around. My candor and directness often alienate those closest to me. I speak without filters because I believe in letting truth breathe, no matter how pungent. And yes, I’ve paid the price. But isn’t this the point of keeping an honest journal? To confront the festering truths before they implode within?
I don’t intend to judge or be judged. I am merely expressing what has haunted me for most of my life. If any of my siblings or their families read this and feel offended, I welcome the discourse. I welcome feedback, confrontation—even condemnation—if it helps me see clearer. I’m too old to apologize for my truth.
My siblings are all brilliant in their own ways. Their gifts were evident even in our youth, and perhaps that’s why they married into families that sought to elevate their own status. This isn’t arrogance—it’s recognition of a lineage that shouldn’t be buried. Our mother was of royal Deli blood. Our grandmother, too. Our grandfather was a master artist and confidant of the Sultan of Medan. We carry in our veins a cultured heritage, even if some prefer to keep it hidden.
My uncle and I verified this lineage in Medan. But at his advice, I kept quiet. “The devil is in the details,” he said, and I’ve since understood that some truths are too heavy for others to carry. Still, I write them down here—not for pride, but for posterity. Let the record show that our gifts were not accidental. They were passed down with a purpose.
In a letter informing me of our father’s passing, my eldest brother wrote that with his death, our Ceylonese bloodline was buried. Perhaps he said this out of pain. My father, like like my grandfather, struggled with alcoholism. But they were both great craftsmen, devoted husbands, and authentic men in their own flawed ways.
And maybe, just maybe, my higher purpose isn’t to find peace, but to make it—within myself first, and maybe, by extension, within the scattered echoes of my family.
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