Terengganu: Looking In, Looking Out – 12/4/2005
Terengganu has a uniquely Malay cultural heritage that is now on the verge of extinction—thanks to the narrow-mindedness of those with the power to shape cultural direction. These so-called educated religious intellectuals and nationalists, many of whom were trained in the rigid universities of the Middle East, now wield religion as a tool of suppression.
One such casualty of their interpretation of Islam is the Main Pantai—the annual beach gathering once held by locals. For seven days, villagers from all around would gather along the shore, pitching makeshift huts and tents, bringing with them food, wares, and family. It was a time of festivity, of connection, of well-earned respite from the year’s toil. Cultural performances, leisure activities, and shared laughter animated the sands.
That is now gone.
Like the Wayang Kulit (shadow puppet theatre), the Main Pantai has been deemed un-Islamic and abolished under religious authority. It is a tragedy of spirit when culture and creativity are choked by the narrow interpretations of a few, claiming to represent the will of God. Yes, every event has its negatives—so does a football match, if one is looking for faults.
Today, instead of authentic, participatory community gatherings, we are offered state-sanctioned events like Sureheboh—corporate festivals parading celebrities, advertisements, and flashy lights. The people are no longer participants in their culture, merely spectators to a spectacle. The richness of Malay tradition has become threadbare.
Meanwhile, tourism thrives—on paper. Five-star resorts pepper the coasts and islands, drawing foreign currency and high-end travelers. Yet the locals benefit little. Most businesses catering to the tourist industry are run by Chinese entrepreneurs with deeper pockets, sharper networks, and wider experience. The Malay, in his own land, becomes a spectator to development—if not a servant on land he once owned.
A friend who managed a five-star resort in Marang once told me of an incident on Pulau Redang. He was chatting with a Chinese resort owner when an elderly Malay man came by, sweeping the area. The Chinese man snapped at him, telling him to go sweep somewhere else. Later, my friend discovered that the Malay man owned the land the resort stood on. He had leased it out. Now he swept its ground.
Stories like this are increasingly common. The Chinese have built robust business systems—leveraging family ties, community associations, and long-term vision. They invest with patience, even running at a loss for years, knowing that land appreciates and success follows consistency. They have clubs, clans, and consortiums—structures of mutual support that shield them from failure.
The Malays, on the other hand, have often been immediate. Opportunistic. Many prioritize short-term gain over long-term stability. Business partnerships among Malays are often marred by distrust, ego, and poor communication. Many trust outsiders more than their own kin. Scams abound. Greed flares. Patience runs thin. And success, when it does come, is often spent on lavish lifestyles rather than reinvested into the community.
This is not to say the Malays are incapable. Many are awakening. Many are striving. And the government continues to offer financial support, training programs, and incentives to level the playing field. But policy alone will not change a people. Attitude must evolve.
Business requires ethics, patience, integrity, and trust. It requires seeing beyond the self, beyond one’s ego or greed, into the web of community and the ripple of responsibility.
My intention here is not to disparage the Malays, nor to lionize the Chinese. I have lived among both—twelve years on the West Coast, twelve on the East, and many years abroad. I observe with equal respect and equal concern. What I write is drawn from conversations with fellow Malays, some friends, some not. I write not to condemn, but to witness.
And what I see is this:
The Malays are generous in times of death and weddings, but stingy in times of financial need. When a neighbor suffers, many look the other way—or, as one of mine once said, “We prefer to see our neighbor worse off, so we can feel better.”
The exceptions are growing. Some Malays have shed the old mentalities, embracing vision, collaboration, and innovation. But too many, once they taste success, fall back into indulgence—buying bigger homes, fancier cars, adding more wives, more status, more titles. Is that wrong? Not necessarily. But when success isn’t shared, when wealth doesn't uplift the community, it becomes hollow. A castle in a rice field.
The Chinese businessman dreams of a global business empire.
The Malay entrepreneur dreams of a Datukship, a Mercedes, and four wives—not necessarily in that order.
Again, I do not write to belittle. I write because I care. I write because I am from this soil, because my children will inherit it. I write because I have lived with the Chinese and the Malays, and seen what is possible in both. The Chinese have earned their success. They built from scratch, with discipline and mutual backing. That deserves respect.
What we must do—as a nation—is learn from each other. To adopt what works. To adapt what uplifts. That is the beauty of Malaysia’s diversity.
So, don’t take this rambling too seriously. Or do.
But either way, know that I write from the fence—looking in, looking out—with no axe to grind but the truth.
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