OUR MALAY ANCESTORS
In the quiet folds of history, our ancestral past stands not merely as a series of dates and names, but as the heartbeat of who we are. The tuans and beebis of yore from our community lived with honor, built with wisdom, and nurtured with an enduring spirit. Their hands may be long gone from the soil they tilled, but the roots they planted flourish in us still.
They wove customs with care and crafted values shaped by resilience, respect, and reverence. Their stories—passed through generations like sacred flame—remind us that strength is not only in muscle, but in unity, integrity, religiosity and perseverance. These ancestors were more than builders of homes; they were builders of hope, heritage, and identity.
To honor them is to see beyond the veil of time, and recognize that their worth is stitched into our every tradition, every celebration, and every lesson whispered by the elders. In their simplicity lay profound wisdom; in their silence, the echoes of greatness.
Ah, the Malays of yesteryear! the patriarchs of our 'kampong', torchbearers of ancestral wisdom, guardians of bygone times and founding souls of our lineage. They were men of enduring spirit, sages who shaped our path and silent architects of our heritage.
To behold them was to witness a community woven from threads of unassuming contentment, their spirits as light as the sea breeze that once caressed our island shores. They were a people blessed with a profound simplicity, a happy-go-lucky nature that found joy in the earth's humble embrace. Ambition, that restless flame, flickered low within them; they found deep satisfaction in the quiet possession of their modest lot, a serenity untouched by the clamor for societal heights. Even the self-deprecating jest of ‘malas’, echoed by voices as notable as Dr. Mahathir Mohammed, they wore with a peculiar pride, declaring themselves the very essence of the ‘makan, menum, tandak, tedor’ class – souls who celebrated the bounty of payday with open hands and joyous hearts.
Their passage into the hallowed halls of white-collar professions seemed effortless, a birthright granted not merely by circumstance, but by their exceptional command of English. This linguistic grace, coupled with a zealous loyalty and impeccable honesty displayed towards their masters, made them the most sought-after jewels in the Raj's choice.
In the uniformed services – the Armed Forces, the steadfast Police, the valiant Fire Brigade, the watchful Prison department – their dominance was no accident. It flowed from a wellspring of Gurkha-like martial instinct, a legacy of bravery inherited from forefathers who crossed oceans drawn by the very call to serve. When retiring age forced them to call it a day, they did not just hang their boots, but ensured their male child took up a uniformed job continuing Malay dominance in the security apparatus of the island home. The name Constable Saban resonates still, the first Malay son to lay down his life in duty's name, felled in colonial Ceylon while pursuing the infamous bandit Saradiel. And in the more recent, three-decade tempest of war, Malay courage proved decisive. From a slender populace of sixty thousand souls, a full forty gallant warriors made the ultimate sacrifice for the motherland – a proportion that speaks volumes when weighed against the contributions of larger communities, where necessity often guided the hand towards security service. In the grim ledger of fallen heroes, the Malays stood second only to the majority Sinhalese, their officers often leading from the very forefront of peril. Their outstanding heroism, innate chivalry, and remarkable versatility secured them roles within the armed forces' most sensitive sanctuaries: intelligence, logistics, and beyond.
The heart of the community beat with profound reverence for Tuan Branudin Jayah, Sri Lanka's sole Malay National Hero. He was the longest-serving Principal of Colombo's Zahira College, a beacon who later ascended to become Labour Minister in Hon. D.S. Senanayake's first Cabinet of Independent Ceylon. Alongside him, figures like M.D. Kitchilan, M.K. Saldin, Zahier Lye, Justice M. T Akbar, Dr. M P Drahaman and M.H. Amit strode the political stage, testament to Malay influence at the highest echelons.
A diehard loyalty, an unswerving allegiance, a near-blind respect for all things British was woven into their very fabric. Veterans of the Second World War, that global conflict, received a humble sterling pension – from the distant Crown, a lifeline maintained until their final breath. Oh, how they cherished this "bowl of porridge" from Her Majesty the Queen, a source of immense personal pride supplementing their monthly toil, arriving via money order like a whispered promise from the Empire. Scorn for the "kulit putih" was unthinkable. Their command of English was nothing short of par excellence; they were walking lexicons, repositories of history, storehouses of worldly knowledge. City Malays, products of Colombo's premier schools, would fondly boast of classmates who became leading politcians, illustrious civil servants, and renowned professionals. Like men of their generation, they could quote The Bible and Shakespeare with effortless grace, sometimes to the gentle chiding of their children for not wielding the Holy Quran and the Prophet's traditions with equal fluency. Recalling the Prophet's household or the Beautiful Names of Allah might require effort, yet the lineage of British royalty, from King George VI downwards, tripped off their tongues like a familiar melody – a lasting testament to the values instilled in Anglican schools under the Raj. So deep was this Anglophile enchantment that they bestowed upon their children a chorus of English names: Tommys, Bonnys, Sonnys, Buntys, Gertys, Lizzys, Dollys, Johnnys, Jeffreys – a symphony echoing through Malay homes. They steered their kids towards books of classics and ushered them to only films deemed worthy grand historical epics.
They were staunch believers in education as the golden key to life's success, straining every resource to place their children upon the right path, within Ceylon's finest institutions. Pleading for diligent study, they stood ever ready to invest in knowledge's sacred treasury. Unlike their other co-religionists, who often guided progeny early into family trade, until the inspiring advent of T.B. Jayah, Malays championed both secular and religious learning, with a particular zeal for mastering the King's English. Astute trading talents seemed absent from their blood; instead, they gravitated towards the dignity of uniformed service, mercantile roles, and estate administration.
Ah, the sartorial elegance of the Malays of yore! They adorned themselves with conscious pride. At any festivity, the Malay attire reigned supreme. Weddings shimmered, illuminated by Tuans resplendent in Batik, Sarong and Songkok, their Beebis radiant in glittering Baju Kurung. They would boast, eyes twinkling, that the very word 'sarong' was borrowed from Bahasa Melayu, and the sarong-clad world owed Malays a franchise right! Yet, they cut equally dashing figures in Western suits and Indian finery.
In matters of faith, they trod a moderate path, neither consumed by fanaticism nor straying far from Islam's shore. While steadfast adherence to the five daily prayers throughout the entire household might not have been universally visible, and the Hajj pilgrimage often deferred, a vibrant undercurrent of saint-worship flowed freely. Vows were made, journeys undertaken to shrines and ziyarams. Tills for the annual Kandiri graced many homes, coins dropped within for surgeries, interviews, exams, or important journeys – a tangible link to the unseen. Superstition and whispers of Jinn islan , a form of black magic, held sway in some hearts. Folklore from Slave Island recounts the legend of a Malay policeman, imbued with supernatural might, overcoming seven hulking Afghan moneylenders in a deserted alley – forever after hailed as 'Elu Bai Oru Dole’ (Seven Bhais vs one Dole the Sergeant). They would proudly, sometimes jokingly, claim descent from Auliyas (saints) to Muslim friends who chided their perceived laxity, retorting that Malays possessed both Bahasa and Auliyas, while others had neither. They declared themselves free from hypocrisy, contrasting themselves with those who might ply the nefarious pursuits only to appear piously in masjids with covered heads. They'd say, echoing the adage, "Malays are either in Heaven or in the Tavern" – meaning whatever they did, they did with their whole heart.
Though perhaps not in its most pristine form, religion played a leading role within the Melayu home. Annual Mowlood and Ashurah gathered extended families – husbands and wives, multitudes of children, parents, and grandparents – for resonant Rateeb, Kattam and Fathiyah. These devotions culminated in feasts fit for kings: steaming nasi kebuli, rich daging masak and goreng, savory kaliya, earthy kola curry, comforting ubi masak, crispy sukung goreng, all crowned by the delicate sweetness of firni or serkaya sprinkled with cadju and raisins , served in the grand tradition upon six per sawan. They marked the sacred calendar – Miraj, Barath, the hallowed night of Lailathul Qadr – and celebrated Hejiri, the fasting devotion of Ramadan, and the pilgrimage of Hajj. On Eid days, adorned in Songkos and finest Batik, they filled the front rows of their venerable Malay mosques. After prayers, a solemn procession would wind towards ancestral graves, reciting Surah Yasin in the quiet air filled with fumes of fragrance emanating from incense and joss sticks. As dusk painted the sky, they streamed towards their 'mahagederas’ to offer ‘sumba salam’ to their elders. And we, the young ones, hearts aflutter, awaited the cherished ‘lubarang diwit’ – a rupee or two destined for sweet liberation at the grocery shop.
They were, almost to a soul, connoisseurs of the table. "Better to eat well than die hungry!" was their jovial creed. Dieting elders, fretting over figures, were rare birds indeed. Even after indulging in rich feasts – succulent Dagin, savoury Babath, piquant Puruth, hearty Thenteng, robust Limpa, spicy Otak sambol, warming Kaki soup– the Malay couples of old maintained figures as trim as a ship's spar. Their passion for Dagin over Ekan sent them early to the Pasar Dagin(Butcher), lest others claim the choicest babath. Wily old souls might even don khaki trousers, cycling to the stall with the confident air of an off-duty policeman – the legendary 'Malay Doray’ securing a princely cut and returning home with laughter echoing.
Large families were worn as badges of honour. Men spoke with palpable delight of their virility, women of their fertility, boasting of cricket elevens, netball squads – rarely a mere draughts or carom pair! The father, the solitary breadwinner without side income or hidden perks, kept the home fires burning. Miraculously, every child thrived, often reaching septuagenarian years without modern immunization, triumphing over scourges like Malaria through resilience alone.
In the arena of sport, the Malays of yesteryear were luminaries. Many donned national colours across disciplines; others were self-made pundits, poring over sports pages, tracing the ascent of Malay names with shrewd foresight, their predictions of future stars often uncannily true. It was their singular honour to found Ceylon's oldest Cricket club while others relished a game of gudu; the Malay Cricket Club, first at Rifle Green, then at Padang, became an institution. Their knowledge of the Gentleman's Game was encyclopaedic. Through the crackle of a valve radio, listening to ball-by-ball commentaries they could conjure entire Test matches on distant continents. They knew the pantheon of past greats, every field position from Gully, Fine leg, short leg to Silly Point (defying Malay translation!), every nuance of the game long before television's glow illuminated their world. At football and rugger matches featuring Malays – Victory, Black Square, Java Lane SC – their presence was fervent, the games guaranteed crowd-pullers. Malay players formed the core of leading clubs like CR, CH, Havelocks, Kandy SC, their skill undeniable.
A subtle sense of distinction often lingered among them. Whispers of 'Bagus' or 'bayek Melayu' contrasted with 'busuk' or 'borok Melayu' delineated social strata. Socialism or Communism was alien to that generation's Malay soul. Futile debates over the 'Malayness' of names ending in 'Din' versus 'Deen' were common. The very spelling held weight – elders might inquire if a surname held 'satu, duwa, tiga, or empat bola' (one, two, three, or four 'O's!). Arabic, Persian, Urdu, or Bengali-sounding names prompted curious inquiries into paternal lineage, while Sanskrit derivations felt familiar, echoing the Malay world's ancient ties.
Music flowed through their veins. Many were gifted instrumentalists, evidenced by the singers and band leaders who emerged from their midst. While 'pantuns' graced weddings, their admirable versatility shone in renditions of English, Sinhala, Tamil, and Hindi songs, all sung with equal gusto. And in lighter moments, playful, sometimes cheeky rhymes would surface: “Seetu Liyat Seeni liyat Acharu mankok...”, ‘Jasson pe abang pe sarongka lobang’, ‘Sitty nona jammin, Bakki dika kincin’ – pardon the slang!
A deep nostalgia for the colonial era often coloured their perspective. They yearned for the city's remembered peace, its quiet, uncongested streets, its perfect cosmopolitan mosaic, where preference for their community seemed effortlessly granted. They lamented the influx from villages, seeing it alter the city's soul and diminish their numbers. The imposition of ‘swabasha’ and the Sinhala Only Act drew their vehement blame and curses.
Now, alas, these nostalgic visions of golden days fade, dimmed by the relentless march of time. Oh, the poignant question hangs heavy: Will the vibrant tapestry of Malay culture, the lyrical cadence of our language, our unique way of life, be confined to but a few devoted families? As youth assimilate through emigration, urbanization, intermarriage, and economic tides, the true strength of our present community dwindles daily. Our only solace, our fervent prayer, is that landmarks endure: Malay Street, Ja Ela, Jawatte, Chava-kachcheri – may they stand as eternal monuments to our passage!
Long live the Sri Lankan Malay! May your spirit, woven of simplicity, courage, and quiet grace, forever resonate in the heart of our island.
Let us walk forward not forgetting, but grounded in the timeless strength of those who came before.
