Title: The Unspoken Goodbye
From Penang to Terengganu — a shift not just of geography, but of soul.
Uprooted
To settle the matter—and perhaps to silence the ripple it caused—I was officially readopted by my birth parents. They were now living on 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.
Stranger in the Fold
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, already carved out into 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.
Faith, Rebranded
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 louder. The curiosity 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.
Life Under Watchful Eyes
I was enrolled at Sultan Sulaiman Secondary School, where my eldest brother—educated, polished—was now the disciplinary master. His presence loomed over me like a shadow I could not outrun.
My twin brother, who had arrived earlier, had already made a name for himself. Respected. Established. Belonged. The school was his turf. I was merely the second shadow—quieter, more confused.
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 jungle. But I didn’t. I endured. I learned how to wear masks. How to drift through judgment. How to retreat into myself without closing the door completely.
The only light that remained was the Buddhist ember my uncle had kindled within me. Even in this harsh new environment, it flickered on—faint, but unwavering.
A Name is Given, But Belonging is Earned
So I became Shamsul Bahari bin Abdul Mutalib—a Muslim by decree, by documentation, by the blade of circumcision. The act was meant to realign me with my “true” destiny. But flesh can be cut. Belonging cannot be forced.
Even with my new name and identity, acceptance did not come—especially not from my mother. Her silence weighed more than any rejection. Her presence withdrawn. Her glances, cold.
Say what you will about the sanctity of a mother’s love, but mine could never quite open that sacred gate.
I don’t say this with bitterness. I say it as a truth I’ve lived and grown into.
The Quiet Flame
For me, love came from my father. Though now a Muslim by name, he still held the gentle fire of Buddhism in his heart. 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.
And that, sometimes, was all I needed to survive.
In the Shadow of Mentors
Despite the isolation at home, the outside world gave me unexpected guides.
Dato’ Ariffin Zakaria, the District Officer—sharp, articulate, and full of quiet dignity—saw something in me that I could not yet name. He opened his library and his world to me.
Then there was Encik Abu Johan, head of the Religious Department and my Silat Seni Gayong instructor. He taught me discipline, not just of the body, but of the spirit. Through his firm yet wise instruction, I learned that real strength is rooted in restraint.
These two men were lighthouses during a storm I could not name.
The Sea, the Sky, and Sacred Passage
Under Dato’ Ariffin’s mentorship, I was gifted an early education far beyond the classroom—exploring untouched islands, hidden coves, secret rainforests. Pulau Redang, Kapas, Perhentian... long before the tourists and hotels, these were our sanctuaries.
He treated the land like a temple. And through him, so did I.
Each journey reminded me that while people could exclude me, nature never did. I began to belong—not to institutions, but to the rhythm of wind and tide, leaf and stream.
A Royal Invitation
Through their recommendations, I was offered my first job—teaching English to the grandchildren of Sultan Ismail Nasiruddin Shah. For a teenage boy with no powerful lineage, this was no small miracle.
And when the Sultan’s golf caddy was occasionally absent, I stepped in. Quietly. Carefully. Learning the nuances of nobility not through protocol but through presence.
Reflection
These years on the East Coast were not easy. But they were formative. And the thread that ran through it all—through every shadow, silence, and shoreline—was the Dharma quietly blooming in the soil of my being.
I was not just surviving anymore.
I was beginning to remember who I was before the world told me who I should be.
The Way of the Silat: My Teenage Years in Kuala Terengganu
I was a student of the martial arts in my teenage years, growing up along the east coast town of Kuala Terengganu, where I spent my secondary schooling days at Sultan Sulaiman Secondary School. The school was—and perhaps still is—one of the top institutions in the state, known for producing high achievers. Many of my peers went on to run the state government, become prominent businessmen, doctors, and engineers.
It was during these formative years that I met my martial arts instructor, Encik (Mr.) Abu Johan bin Johor. At the time, he was the Director of the Terengganu State Religious Department (Ketua Jabatan Agama Terengganu)—one of the highest-ranking positions in the state government, on par with the Chief Magistrate or the Chief of Police. These high-ranking officials were his close companions, often gathering at his home after office hours, usually in the evenings and often well into the night. I was often present among them, a teenager quietly soaking in the energy of powerful minds while defeating them at their favorite game—Scrabble.
Because I had read extensively as a teenager, my English was good enough to give me an edge in the game. For that, I earned a seat at their table—a rare privilege for someone my age. I paid little attention to the subjects of their conversations beyond the game, but I could sense the presence of strong intellects and seasoned leaders. I knew I was in the company of people not to be trifled with.
Encik Abu Johan, or Pa' Abu as I came to call him, was a rare man—highly educated in the West and deeply grounded in Islamic teachings. He embodied balance, wisdom, and discipline. It was a blessing to be accepted into his large family—he had many children of his own, as well as adopted children—and to be granted the opportunity to learn one of the most sacred and guarded forms of Malay martial arts: Silat Seni Gayong. Today, this art stands among the most respected martial traditions in Malaysia. “Never claim to be number one,” Pa' Abu once told me, “Let others say it on your behalf.”
Our gelanggang—or training ground—was the courtyard of his home, a government quarters for Division One state officials. It sat along the beach at Batu Buruk, the "Old Stone," a coastal stretch facing the South China Sea. The beach extended endlessly in both directions, fringed by coconut palms and casuarina trees, their whispering needles always caught in the sea breeze. Training began in the evening after Pa' Abu completed his Asar prayers. The gelanggang was a green canvas tarp spread over a layer of sawdust to cushion our falls.
Just as I was a formidable Scrabble player, I also excelled in Silat. I became someone to be reckoned with in the ring—not because of brute strength, but because I saw it as an art, a dance. Silat is about reading your partner’s moves, sensing their energy, and responding with grace and precision. It was never just about fighting—it was about harmony, rhythm, and subtlety.
Like many traditional Malay martial arts, Silat Seni Gayong is deeply spiritual, interwoven with the supernatural. Practitioners often have spiritual companions—entities in the unseen realm who are said to train alongside them. These companions are introduced to students through rituals and initiations overseen by a teacher with spiritual knowledge. In our school, Pa' Abu’s wife was reputed to have the ability to see into the spiritual realm. She played a key role in identifying whether a summoned spirit was positive or compatible with a student during initiations.
At first, I was not accepted into the inner circle for initiation by Pa Abu himself, much to my dismay. Instead, I was initiated by a more unconventional teacher, Tengku Azmel Muzzafar Shah, said to be a nephew of Malaysia's first Prime Minister, Tunku Abdul Rahman. Tengku Azmel never liked to talk about his lineage. He had a fierce presence, and it was once told—by a source I trust—that he dropped a man to the floor with nothing more than a stare. His eyes reminded me of a king cobra’s—piercing, unreadable.
Tengku Azmel rented the house next to mine, and I often spent time at his place when he was around. He frequently went on hunting and fishing trips with a mutual friend of ours, the late Dato' Ariffin Zakaria, who at the time was a District Officer and later served as the Sultan’s advisor. Dato' Ariffin was a man of great humility, respected by all. He had a signature gesture—stretching out his arm and challenging me to twist his tightly clenched fist. No matter how hard I tried, I could never budge it. He was a mentor to me, just as much as Pa Abu and Tengku Azmel. From him, I learned the meaning of leadership without arrogance—how to wield power with grace and compassion.
These were the men who shaped my youth. Through their teachings, I learned more than martial arts—I learned discipline, spirituality, and the quiet strength of character that defines a true warrior.
I became like Musashi Miyamoto! A Rebel without a cause.
#TheUnspokenGoodbye #EastCoastMemoirs #SilatSeniGayong #MalaysianMemoir #SpiritualAwakening #ChildhoodTransitions #MalayCulture #BuddhismAndIslam #DharmaJourney #PulauRedang #SultanIsmail #SilatWarrior #NatureAsSanctuary #ComingOfAge #CulturalDisplacement #CheeseburgerBuddha
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