Saiful Bahri, What Were You Thinking Of, Man!

TODAY I wish to pay tribute to an obscure Malaysian. One Mr Saiful Bahri, who was born in 1924 and died in 1976. I don't know what else this man did, what other tunes he penned, but he was the composer of this wonderful patriotic song which captures all the feelings and emotions I have for this confounded country, a song that makes me howl every time I play it:


Malaysia Berjaya

Malaysia kita sudah berjaya
Aman makmur bahagia
Malaysia abadi selamanya
Berjaya dan berjaya

Berbagai kaum sudah berikrar
Menjunjung cita-cita
Satu bangsa satu bahasa
Malaysia berjaya

Dari Perlis sampailah ke Sabah
Kita sudah merdeka
Negara makmur rakyat mewah
Kita sudah berjaya

Dengan semboyan kita berjaya
Gemuruh di angkasa
Satu bangsa satu negara
Malaysia berjaya


This song hit the airwaves in the 1970s. Snotnosed kid that I was then, I appreciated its simple-hearted qualities: catchy marchband tune, optimistic lyrics, a finale that was one big crescendo.

The part which particularly appealed to me was 'satu bangsa, satu negara.' One race (or people), one country. Man, how daring was that! What was Saiful Bahri thinking of when he wrote that, I wonder. Surely the man, being Malay, knew exactly what he was writing about. Knew the meaning of the words he so carefully chose. Or was that a slip of the mind?

For whatever reasons, this song spoke to me. So much so that that year (I forget which, but it was one of those 1970s year), when the Education Ministry issued examination forms which had a 'fill-in-the-blank' for a pupil's race, I gleefully scribbled 'Malaysian' in every single one of those forms.

A fit my class teacher had. 'What's the matter, tak paham simple instructions ke!' she snarled, quite forgetting she was the Malay Language cikgu.

'Sorry, maam,' I said, 'I thought we were all satu bangsa, satu negara.'

Cikgu M waved the papers at me. I spent the rest of the session erasing 'Malaysian' next to the tiny box which said 'Lain-Lain (Others).'

Later I remember they taught us a new song. 'Aku Anak Malaysia.' And they made us all buy t-shirts which had the Malaysian flag and the words 'Aku Anak Malaysia' (I'm A Child of Malaysia) imprinted on it. Seven bucks that t-shirt was. Money I gladly parted with. Wore that t-shirt for years. Until it frayed. Until the flag faded. Until people complained I was looking like a curry puff about to burst out of its skin.

But before that, a man came to our school. The same man who put up the words to 'Aku Anak Malaysia' on a chalkboard, taught us how to sing the song, and then after that, gave a very strange fifteen-minute lecture on how little children needed to know their history. Great, I thought, I love history. But then the man said this: 'Hah, listen baik-baik, children. The Indians come from India, the Chinese from China. And the Malays come from.. here.'

WHAZZAT?? What's the man talking about? First, he spends half the day teaching us we're 'Anak Malaysia.' Then he tells us we Indian come from India, Chinese from China. What Indian? What Chinese? I looked at the sea of Malaysian faces around me and did the only sensible thing anyone would do under such circumstances. I put up my hand.

'Haaa.....' the man exclaimed. Pleased that he had a question from the floor. Pleased that not all of the kids were busy picking kutu and surreptitiously playing la-la-li-talimpong behind the chairs. 'Yes, saudara, what is your question?'

Saudara. Empowering word that. So I said: 'Sir, I'm confused. Are we anak Malaysia or are we Malay, Chinese, Indian?'

Chapel Hall was ahushed. You could hear a pin drop. Yes, in those days, it wasn't haram to hold assembly in Chapel Hall.

The man smirked. 'Oh, we must all be proud of our past, our history. That's why we say Malay, Chinese, Indian. To remember our past. But we are all 'Anak Malaysia' today.

'Sir,' I persisted. 'If I am Anak Malaysia TODAY (yes, I half-shouted out the word), then why is it when exam time comes, we still have to fill in the forms saying we are Indian, Chinese, Malay and Lain-lain?'

The assembly broke into thunderous applause. The man blushed. I sat down with goose pimples all over my arms.
I was aware of a knot in my stomach. Something which felt like it was alive.

'But, but' the man stammered, 'Don't you think history is important, that we need to be reminded of our history?'

The knot in my stomach made me jump to my feet. 'Sir, history is only important if it is good history. If it brings peace, makes people want to be friends with one another. Sir, if in my history my moyang was a criminal, I don't want it brought up over and over again. I rather that history die so that I can have a new future, a better future.'

Again my schoolmates cheered. Cikgu M was looking at me with a peculiar glint in her eye. Something akin to delight.

Anyway, back to Saiful Bahri and his song. I heard it again yesterday. In my mind, when I was resting alone in the evening, recuperating from a hard slog of a day. But this time, instead of being a rapturous melody, Malaysia Berjaya played itself slow. Strident. Off-key. As if Saiful Bahri was sitting down at an old broken piano and had arthritis in his fingers. All of a sudden, with no warning, the tears welled up again.