A Home Away From Home

“Please, put these on," she said, while handing me a full length traditional dress. I felt uncomfortable, I didn’t want to intrude at such a sensitive moment but there wasn’t time for my British sense of impoliteness.

I was living with a Muslim family in a small village in Sabah, Borneo. The mother is your mother, the children are your brothers and sisters and if the family are going to a wake, you too have to come and pay your respects. So I put on the traditional clothes, I climbed into the car and I arrived with a sombre expression trying to mask my exploding curiosity.

It seemed as though the whole village had come. The women all brought food and systematically got to work in the kitchen, the men stood around outside, talking through cigarette smoke and the children were running in and out, dirtying their best clothes. The house was alive with the joy of family coming together. I was greeted warmly and offered a cushion on the floor. Children I’d never met before were clambering on top of me and I no longer felt like a trespasser. Suddenly a plate of cakes was brought to me and I sampled a variety of unrecognisable treats: green pancakes, coconut doughnuts, a white powdery ball which tasted of peanut butter, a banana in batter; every mouthful a sensation of home-made delight. I offered them to the children but they all shied away; this was my welcome gift and as expectant eyes watched me, I realised I would cause offence if I didn’t finish my plateful. I swallowed the last bite and instantly a second plate arrived. Two plates down and on cue, a third appeared. As my borrowed clothes strained, I panicked about where this dance between grateful guest and generous host would end up. Thankfully, my father came to speak to me and I was able to distract myself from the plate of gluttony. He explained that the men would soon be coming in, they would sit on one side and the women on the other and prayer would begin.

Quickly the room was filled, every age sitting cross legged on the floor. A microphone was passed around the men and they took it in turns to pray. Long prayers, songs, chanting in unison in their native Malay tongue. Although I couldn’t translate, I didn’t need to; the emotions being conveyed were universal. Every voice expressed grief, every voice expressed sorrow, every voice was saying goodbye. I couldn’t believe I had been invited into something so intimate. My mother smiled at me and I truly felt like one of the family.