Allah

Majalah Syir'ah, Tahannus, Februari 2007
Oleh Mujtaba Hamdi

Banyaknya bencana yang menimpa negeri kita ini, konon, akibat makin sedikitnya orang beriman. Tapi kita tahu, hari ini, kian banyak saja orang yang menyebut asma Tuhan, kian sering saja orang mengucap “Allah, Allah, Allah”. Tidak hanya karena masjid-masjid semakin massif dibangun, lalu azan jadi gencar dikumandangkan. Tidak juga lantaran kian gampang umat “disemangati”, lalu sebentar-sebentar berteriak “Allahu Akbar”. Atau karena kian marak peminta sumbangan di jalan-jalan, yang selalu mewiridkan lafal jalalah itu demi memperoleh simpati pemberi sedekah. Tidak cuma itu. Hari ini, mudahlah kita simak ucapan ‘Allah’ yang muncul seiring dengan obat flu, shampo, sabun colek, atau bahkan pembalut wanita.

Di layar elektronik, yang bisa menerobos kamar paling terkucil sekalipun itu, kita hampir selalu disuguhi kisah yang bertabur ucapan ‘Allah’. Kisah-kisah itu mudah dinamai religius, berwatak agama. Tapi apa itu yang berwatak agama? Kita tahu akhirnya, yang religius adalah ketika ucapan ‘Allah’ menjadi penetap garis, mana tokoh pahlawan dan mana sosok begundal. Untuk mengetahui mana tokoh pahlawan, cukuplah kita lihat mana yang rajin melafalkan ‘Allah’, dari astghfirullah, subhanallah, masya allah, insya allah, hingga yang paling biasa, dan paling sering, bismillah dan alhamdulillah. Sudah bisa dipastikan, dalam kisah-kisah itu, tokoh-tokoh yang kerap mengucap demikian tak bakal berakhir dengan mata terbelalak, tubuh gosong, atau kulit melepuh.

Tapi kata ‘Allah’ juga merupakan penanda sebuah keadaan. Dan, kebetulan tapi anehnya terus berlangsung, ucapan ‘Allah’ menjadi ekspresi kondisi sedih dan nelangsa. Ketika ada seorang istri mendapati suami berkelakuan meyakitkan, tiba-tiba kata ‘Allah’ menjadi mantra wajib yang sebentar-sebentar terucap. Saat seorang menantu mengalami perlakuan serbatega dari mertua perempuan, wiridan ‘Allah’ menjadi adegan reguler. Begitu pun, tatkala ada anak kecil disia-siakan ibu tiri, bebunyian ‘Allah’ macam hendak dipantulkan di tiap sudut. Sepertinya, kalau pun kita tak merasa teryakinkan oleh lakon para pemeran dalam menciptakan situasi pedih, cukup kita simak gencarnya lafal ‘Allah’ maka kita bisa tahu bahwa tragedi sedang berlangsung.

Kita mungkin tak pernah bertanya, apa sebenarnya yang ada di benak para pembuat cerita itu. Tapi barangkali juga tak mudah menjawab jika ada yang tanya, “Allah iku sopo? ” Allah itu siapa, sebuah pertanyaan sederhana, namun membutuhkan jawaban yang tak gegabah. Sebab jangan-jangan, si penutur pun tak sepenuhnya mengerti apa yang dilafalkannya sendiri. Bisa jadi, satu-satunya yang diresapi adalah bahwa jika ada kata ‘Allah’ di sebuah cerita maka ia menjadi ‘berwatak agama’. Lain tidak. Seperti juga ketika, dalam cerita lain yang ‘berwatak remaja’, selipan kata-kata Inggris menentukan sebuah cerita masuk kategori ‘gaul’ atau tidak.

Singkatnya, jangan-jangan, pemahaman yang tertanam adalah, kata ‘Allah’ tak ubahnya kata sisipan macam by the way, basically, at least, it’s OK, dan seabgrek lainnya. Bedanya, yang pertama menjadi pengabsah sebuah status ‘religius’, sedangkan yang kedua menjadi stempel merek ‘gaul’.

Apa boleh buat, semua itu memenuhi ruang-ruang kita, setiap hari, berselang-seling dengan klip video jualan obat, makanan ringan, perangkat kecantikan, dan lain-lain. Hingga, ketika ada yang memanggil Allah dengan sebutan lain, kita sulit memasukkannya dalam kotak religius. Kita tahu, dalam hidup sehari-hari, orang lebih akrab menyebut Allah dengan istilah ‘Yang Di Atas’. Sangat tidak religius? Tidak dari bahasa Arab? Kurang islami? Mungkin iya, jika kita cuma berpatokan pada kata, dan melupakan pengalaman, dan penghayatan.

Bagi yang akrab dengan sebutan itu, Allah hadir tidak dalam pengalaman kosong, melainkan dari kenyataan sehari-hari bahwa mereka tak selalu mampu mengendalikan hidup, menyetir hal-ihwal. Lalu timbul kesadaran bahwa ada ‘Yang Di Atas’, yang melampaui segala, yang menguasai seluruh hal-ihwal. Apakah ini bukan religius?

Dari pengalaman lain, apakah sebutan ‘Sing Ngecet Lombok’, yang mencat cabe, yang menggantikan kata ‘Allah’, juga tidak religius? Mereka yang punya sebutan ini berangkat dari pengalaman konkrit. Mereka tak pernah menyaksikan kapan cabe yang putih kekuningan berubah jadi merah. Mereka hanya menyemai, menyiram, menyiangi—merawat. Kadang cabe tak kunjung memerah, justru mengering. Sing Ngecet Lombok adalah ekspresi nyata dari kesadaran adanya pengendali atas segala, yang di luar jangkauan upaya mereka.

Ada juga yang lebih suka menyebut Sing Nggawe Urip, yang mencipta hidup. Sangat tidak Arab tentu saja. Tapi dengan sebutan itu, kehadiran Allah terasa lebih nyata. Menyebut Allah saja mungkin terasa ‘biasa’, namun ketika menyebut Sing Nggawe Urip, kehadiran Allah terasa merasuk di setiap pengalaman, yang paling sepele sekalipun. Yang mencipta hidup, yang menggerakan nafas, yang mengalirkan darah, yang menggeser malam—dan seterusnya. Dan mereka merasa kurang religius jika cuma menyebut ‘Allah’ begitu saja. Buat mereka, banyak pintu nama yang bisa mengekspresikan hakikat Allah. Dan bukankah Allah memiliki nama-nama indah, al-Asma al-Husna?

Allah juga disebut ar-Rahman, pengasih, dan ar-Rahim, penyayang. Tapi Allah sekaligus al-’Aliyy, yang Maha Tinggi. Bukankah ini yang diistilahkan ‘Yang Di Atas’ tadi? Allah juga memiliki nama lain, al-Khaliq, yang menciptakan, al-Muhyi, yang menghidupkan, al-Mumit, yang mematikan. Bukankah ini terekspresikan dalam bahasa Sing Nggawe Urip? “Allah memiliki nama-nama indah,” kata Rasulullah, “dengan nama apapun kalian memanggilNya, sesungguhnya kalian sedang memanggil hakikat yang satu. Dia punya nama-nama indah, al-Asma al-Husna.”

Allah bisa dipanggil dengan nama indahNya yang manapun, dengan bahasa apa pun, meski (atau sayangnya) orang sekarang tak pernah menganggapnya religius. Dan, kita pun tahu sebenarnya, kata ‘Allah’ sendiri sudah ada sejak zaman Jahiliyyah. Nama ayah Rasulullah sendiri adalah Abdullah. Hari ini pun, orang Kristiani dan Yahudi, di berbagai wilayah Arabia, menyebut Tuhan mereka dengan kata ‘Allah’. Tapi, kita di sini, seolah terus-menerus mematok kata ‘Allah’ sebagai ukuran islami. Yang menyebut dengan istilah yang tak Arab, menjadi tersingkir dari kotak religius, rangka islami. Atau, ini mungkin adalah bencana tersendiri di negeri ini? *

Selengkapnya...

Syahwat

Majalah Syir'ah, Tahannus, Januari 2007
Oleh Mujtaba Hamdi

Dari beranda masjid sini, masih tampak jelas huruf cetak di papan tua itu: “Jual Pil Biru. Rahasia Pria Perkasa.” Usai mampir shalat zuhur di masjid sini, cukuplah dengan menyeberang jalan, kita akan sampai di toko penjaja obat kuat itu. Dan jangan kaget, hanya sekitar sepuluh atau lima belas langkah dari situ, kita bisa lihat lagi papan serupa: “Sedia Obat Oles. Besar dan Keras. Tahan Lama.” Sepanjang jalan itu, ternyata, tak sulit mendapatkan teks dengan nada yang sama. Di trotoar jalan. Di pohon-pohon. Di tiang-tiang listrik, tiang telepon. Ada belasan, eh, puluhan—di seperjalanan yang tak lebih dari lima kilometer itu. “Terbukti manjur. Jaminan uang kembali.”

Ada syahwat di sana, sekaligus ada kecemasan. Seorang pria seperti harus merasakan kecemasan itu: runtuhnya syahwat. Macam ada asumsi yang disepakati, bahwa syahwat pria itu tak berpondasi, sehingga rapuh, rawan, mudah ambruk, gampang rontok. Dan karena mudah kempes semacam itu, maka syahwat pria harus terus dipompa, dipompa, dan dipompa. Itu tak cuma terekspresikan di papan-papan pinggir jalan yang ‘liar’, ‘tanpa izin’, ‘tak berkelas’ itu. Tapi juga di baliho-baliho jalan tol, yang dipasang perusahaan-perusahaan advertising bergengsi. Ah, ya, juga di slot-slot iklan teve paling bercitrakan ‘intelektual’ sekalipun. Tentu saja tidak dalam bentuk teks ‘pil biru’, tapi sudah dikemas manis: pembangkit stamina pria. Nadanya juga lebih berkelas: “Langsung action”..

Tapi, apa yang kita dengar di sudut sana? Di sana, di masjid-masjid, di ruang-ruang pengajian, yang dihadiri banyak kaum ibu itu (mungkin juga di masjid seberang penjual ‘pil biru’ itu), ekspresi itu telah berubah, total, seratus delapan puluh derajat. Syahwat pria tak lagi ditampilkan sebagai rapuh-tak berpondasi-gampang kempes, melainkan kokoh-meluap-luap-butuh ditumpahkan. Kita dengar, di sana, sebuah suara bergaung agung: “Zina itu laknat, tapi mendua bukanlah khianat.” Di sana, syahwat pria ditampilkan seperti magma-mendidih, yang cuma ada dua pilihan mengatasi: zina atau mendua. Dan akhirnya, lantaran pilihan pertama itu dosa, tersisa hanya satu jalan keluar, yakni mendua—juga meniga, mengempat.

Lama-lama, sayup-sayup, tapi kemudian makin keras, kata ‘syahwat’ itu telah berubah menjadi ‘malaikat’. Mendua—juga meniga dan mengempat—bukanlah soal syahwat. Ia adalah soal membantu yang lemah, menolong yang tak mampu, menyelamatkan yang sengsara. Harta kian melimpah. Kekayaan terus bertambah. Perusahaan tak henti memproduksi laba. Cabang-cabang perusahaan baru didirikan. Keuntungan berlipat ganda. Sedang di luar sana, bukankah banyak perempuan yang menunggu ‘diberdayakan’, menanti uluran tangan? Bukankah terlalu banyak perempuan, sementara terlalu sedikit pria? Bukankah begitu banyak perempuan lahir, sedang begitu banyak pria tewas? Wajah malaikat seakan tampil, melenyapkan raut syahwat.

Suara itu didengar dengan anggukan, entah karena pasrah atau lantaran gundah. Macam menyimpan pertanyaan tertahan: tapi bukankah syahwat perempuan lebih meluap, meronta-ronta, dan, ya, tanpa perlu dipompa? Sebuah riwayat, konon dari Ali bin Abi Thalib, menuturkan, “Allah Taala menciptakan syahwat dalam sepuluh bagian. Kemudian Dia berikan sembilan bagian untuk perempuan dan satu bagian untuk lelaki.” Seorang perempuan, sudah dari sononya, punya sembilan syahwat. Sedang pria cuma punya satu. Tak heran jika semua pemompa syahwat diperuntukkan kaum pria. Tapi kenapa tak ada cerita tentang perempuan yang harus menumpahkan syahwat yang bahkan sembilan kali lipat pria itu?

Pertanyaan yang hanya tertahan. Di sudut sana, sembari terus disiram kisah tentang syahwat yang menjelma malaikat itu, mungkin berharap ada kisah lain. Tidak terlalu muluk. Bukan menuntut cerita tentang perempuan dengan sembilan pria. Sederhana saja. Kisah tentang perempuan yang sudah cukup sengsara. Dituntut menjaga rapat-rapat sembilan syahwat. Di ruang publik dihambat. Hendak pergi shalat Jumat pun, sudah disekat. Tak boleh terlalu menampakkan hasrat. Harus pemalu. Dandan agak cemerlang, juga dilarang. Lelah, sudah cukup lelah merawat sembilan syahwat.

Juga kisah tentang perempuan yang bisa jaya. Khadijah binti Khuwailid pun seorang perempuan serba ada. Kaya harta. Turunan mulia. Tak sulit jika harus pilih pemuda manapun yang disuka. Dengan sembilan syahwat, limpahan harta, dia hanya memilih satu pria. Tidak adakah kisah sederhana tentang pria yang alergi mendua? Mungkin, kaum ibu di sana, yang masih mendengar ‘siraman rohani’ itu, ingin juga membisikkan kalimat: “Satu syahwat, tak perlu mengeluh enggak kuat. Yang sembilan saja tidak khianat.”

Namun bisikan kalimat itu mungkin juga tersekat. Terlalu gemuruh kisah tentang satu syahwat yang menuntut empat. Mungkin juga mustahil mendengar kisah ‘perlawanan’ seorang Rabiah—seorang perempuan yang mampu membalik makna. Syahdan, di hari yang biasa, Rabiah al-Adawiyah, sang sufi agung itu, didatangi Ibrahim bin Adham. “Berapa syahwat yang dimiliki pria, seperti engkau?” tanya Rabiah kepada Ibrahim.

Ibrahim, yang juga tokoh sufi terkemuka, menjumpai Rabiah memang tidak untuk berdiskusi, melainkan melamar, memperistri. Maka Rabiah merasa perlu bertanya. Dan Ibrahim tentu dengan mudah menjawab. “Pria memiliki satu syahwat, dan sembilan akal.”

Masih satu pertanyaan lagi dari Rabiah. “Lalu berapa syahwat yang dimiliki perempuan, seperti aku?” Lagi-lagi, secara enteng Ibrahim menjawab, “Perempuan memiliki sembilan syahwat, dan satu akal.”

Mungkin Ibrahim tak menduga ketika Rabiah kemudian menimpali, “Alangkah lemahnya engkau, Ibrahim. Aku yang memiliki sembilan syahwat, mampu menahan diri tidak kawin, hanya dengan satu akal. Sedangkan engkau, yang cuma punya satu syahwat, tidak mampu menahan diri, meski dengan sembilan akal.”

Ibrahim terdiam, dan kembali, tanpa memperoleh hasil yang dibayangkan.

Hari ini, kisah itu akan mustahil diceritakan kembali dengan penuh semangat. Tak akan ada yang dengar. Sebab kisah hari ini bukan kisah tentang akal yang menundukkan, tapi yang melipatgandakan, syahwat. Dengan sembilan akal, syahwat yang satu tidak cuma berlipat sembilan—sebesar syahwat milik perempuan. Lebih, lebih dari itu, sembilan akan mengganda empat kali lagi. Akal selalu punya cara. Pertama, dengan mengganti wajah syahwat menjadi malaikat. Dan kedua tentu (atau meski?) dengan terus memompa, memompa, dan memompa, dengan medium dan kelas yang juga bisa dipilih: mau yang ‘langsung greng’ atau, sedikit tidak murahan, ‘langsung action’. *

Selengkapnya...

Lessons from History

Southeast Asian Press Alliance, December 2006
By Mujtaba Hamdi

KUALA LUMPUR – His friends said he was schooled in a madrasa (Islamic school), but when he walked up to me at a food stall in Bangsar, in this city, I suddenly wasn’t sure he was the person I was supposed to meet. But he assured me he was Muhammad Abror Rivai, and yes, he was a madrasa graduate.

For sure there are conservative Muslims elsewhere who sport long hair and have moustaches and beards that flow as freely. But we were in Malaysia, after all, where conservative means clean-cut. Besides, on Abror, all that hair made him look positively bohemian – again something that one would not expect to see in this country.

Multi-ethnic and multicultural, Malaysia is nevertheless identified as a Muslim nation because Islam is the faith of majority of its dominant ethnic group. And even as Malaysia tries to project a moderate face of Islam, the more conservative among the nation’s Muslims seem to have developed stronger voices in recent years.

And so I expected a madrasa graduate in Malaysia to look nothing at all like Abror. But I was to realise that although this country’s Islamic schools have a lot in common with those in other nations, these have also been moulded by Malaysia’s political and social history, as much as their graduates are products not only of such schools, but also of Malaysia’s melting pot of a society, as well as of their own families.

Abror is a case in point. Born to a deeply Islamic family, he has nevertheless ended up an independent movie producer. At 30, he has produced six short films, among them one with a storyline that not all members of his religious clan might appreciate. He knows that not everyone outside of his family approves of how he has chosen to present himself, which some may think does not “reflect” Muslim values. His long hair, for one, is considered “unsuitable” for a son of an ustadz (religious teacher). But Abror says his mother, an ustadzah, has told him, “The Prophet Muhammad's hair was also long.”

His entire family also does not mind that he has gone into film. “I'm lucky that I have a big family,” he says. “Many of my other brothers went their ways to fulfill family wishes, lah.” Among Abror’s brothers are an ustadz, a doctor, and a lawyer. “So my parents burdens were lifted lah,” he says.

Recalling madrasa days

They did, however, encourage Abror to study at a public madrasa. “I was taught fiqh, aspects of basic Islamic law,” recounts Abror of his some 12 years in Islamic schools. “The usual tawhid -- the 20 characters. Tauhid uluhiyyah, rububiyah, asma was-sifat.”

In a nutshell, fiqh teaches a Muslim how to live his daily life according to Islamic law. Tawhid, meanwhile, means ‘oneness of God’, and teaches how a Muslim can know God. Tawhid uluhiyah teaches why Allah is the only God who should be worshiped. Tauhid rububiyah confirms that Allah is the only creator of the universe. And asma was-sifat emphasises on the importance of names and characteristics of God.

“Twenty characters” are the characters of God that should be understood by all students. Lessons of tawhid usually involves belifes in the prophets, angels, scripture, and the end of the world.

“All subjects used Jawi script,” says Abror. Jawi is Arabic writing in Malay language. Since the first centuries of Islam in Malay, Jawi has been used among the Malay Muslim communities. Abdullah Abdul Kadir Munsyi, a 19th century famous writer who had close relation with the British colonial government, wrote his works in Jawi.

For the most part, everything that one usually takes up in madrasa Abror learned in those he attended. He says, however, that his teachers would not answer questions that were not part of the official curriculum, which was provided by the government. Any subject that was not included in the government’s approved list was also not taught in a Malaysian madrasa.

“Textbooks are provided by the (education) ministry,” he says. “Different from the previous system, which used Matan Jurumiyah. Old textbooks are not used. All are provided by the ministry.” Matan Jurumiyah is Arabic grammar authored by Abu Abdillah Muhammad bin Muhammad bin Daud As-Sanhaji in 14th century.

In the past, according to Abror, those classical texts were taught in madrasa. But since the implementation of the New Curriculum for High School in the mid-80s, all textbooks have been prepared by the government. “Except for those studying in pesantren, at the pondok,” says Abror. “They are still learning from old textbooks.”

Pesantren or pondok are boarding schools initiated in the19th century. Here in Malaysia, there are still several pondoks.. Apparently, though, they do not command the same level of respect as the madrasa.

“Living in pondok is isolated,” says Abror. “The educational system there is isolated from its surroundings.”

Amirudin Shari, who spent some eight years in a madrasa in Johore, would also tell me later, “Kids who are not smart in academics are sent to pondok.”

Malaya’s first Islamic schools

One reason for the rather unflattering view of the pondok in Malaysia is because the curriculum there does not prepare graduates for university. Some pondoks, in order to survive, now teach the government curriculum along with traditional lessons.

The seeming “prejudice” against pondoks can also be traced to the development of Islamic schools in Malaysia. Education expert Rosnani Hashim places the pondok somewhere between the Koranic schools, the earliest forms of Islamic education in peninsular Malaya, and the madrasa, which considered to be the “modern” Islamic school.

The Koranic schools were actually informal institutions, with the lessons conducted in the homes of religious teachers, in mosques or in surau, says Rosnani. Children of five or six years old were sent to these schools, where they learned how to read the Koran and how to perform their Islamic duties – particularly the five daily prayers. The teachers usually read the lessons aloud, and then the students each take their turn reading until they memorise the lesson. Often, the lesson would be short verses from the Koran and prayers used in shalat. After that would come the lessons in the Malay language.

Rosnani says that the Koranic students paid no fees, “but donated money to buy kerosen for the oil lamps that were used if classes were held at night”. Or sometimes students helped the ustadz for his daily life by fetching water for his household or even tending his ricefield.

After students were already able to read the Koran and write in Jawi, they then proceeded to the pondok. There they were taught how to interpret the Koran, as well as hadith, along with other subjects such as fiqh, tawhid, and Islamic history. There were no levels; students would gather around the ustadz, who would read and explain the scriptures, which were in Arabic.

From pondok to madrasa

But the Islamic education system went through changes during the early 20th century. This was the time of the Islamic reform movement, or Islah in Malay, and the pondok became one of the targets for an overhaul. According to Rosnani, pondok education was deemed “narrow” and insufficient in preparing students for the socioeconomic changes that were taking place. Pondok graduates were certainly not qualified to be employed by the British colonial government. Neither could they enter the commercial sector.

Syekh Tahir Jalaluddin and Syekh Ahmad al-Hadi thus tried to establish a more “modern” school, opening Madrasah al-Iqbal in 1907 in what is now known as Singapore. The new school had levels or grades, and there were additional secular subjects, such as geography, history, and science. A year later, however, the school had to close; al-Hadi then moved to Malacca and established Madrasah Al-Hadi. Again, the school was closed within a year. Al-Hadi next set up Madrasah al-Mashoor in Penang; to this day the school remains open. By 1913, the Neracha weekly newspaper reported that tens of madrasas were operational in Perak state. A number of pondoks had transformed themselves into madrasas.

At the time, Malays thought little of secular education, even though the British had already opened schools offering this. There were even national schools that had Malay as their medium of instruction. It took the Educational Ordinance of 1957 for Malays to begin considering national schools, which now offered Islamic lessons. By the time the Education Act of 1961 was ratified a few years after Malaya gained independence from Britain, more and more Malays were sending their children to the national schools, whose graduates had greater chances of going to university and landing good jobs.

In no time, the madrasas seemed to be under siege. In Kelantan alone, they declined in number from 151 in 1967 to 111 in 1970. It did not help the madrasas any that they were soon becoming known as the refuge for those who flunked the entrance exams for national schools.

The madrasa takes it turn at reforms

The Muslim Malays could not let such a situation continue, especially after the 1969 race riots that brought to fore the grievances of ethnic Malays especially against the ethnic Chinese, who were more economically dominant. This was during the 1970s, when there was a revival of Islam in the country as well. Several organisations began to criticise the government policies regarding Islam and ethnic Malays. In her book Educational Dualism in Malaysia, Rosnani writes that the government was hit for allegedly providing mainly secular education and putting too much emphasis on material development “to the neglect of Islamic values and identity.” She adds that Muslim Malays began to worry that their children would not be able to read the Koran or even perform the five daily prayers.

In response, the government amended the curricula in the national schools, first in the primary levels and then in high schools, the main change being more hours devoted to religious study. The government also began giving financial assistance to private madrasas that had been receiving aid from wakaf, as well as to those supervised by local governments. In some cases, the government took over the management of the madrasas; these eventually became known as the Sekolah Menengah Kebangsaan Agama or SMKA. In 1977, there were only 11 SMKAs. Now there are about 55, with none among them in need of students at any one time.

“SMKAs are very popular,” Rosnani tells me when I finally meet her in person. She adds that such schools are fully equipped and has very good teachers. In addition, the SMKA is considered to be an integration of Islamic and secular education. Or as Rosnani puts it, “the best of both worlds,” religious but modern, capable of producing “religious professionals.”

I remembered that Abror had spent some six years in an SMKA. While before I thought there was some disconnect with Abror the film producer and Abror the madrasa graduate who was steeped in Islamic teachings, now I saw his two sides merge.

Then again, Abror went to madrasa at a time when there were efforts to integrate the religious and secular worlds. In present-day Malaysia, however, efforts to keep them apart seem to be growing stronger.


Mujtaba Hamdi is a writer from Syir'ah, a monthly Muslim magazine in Jakarta that promotes religious openness and diversity. This story was written originally in Bahasa Indonesia.

Selengkapnya...

Syiar

Majalah Syir'ah, Tahannus, Desember 2006
Oleh Mujtaba Hamdi

Sepi-sepi saja keadaan di kampung kecil itu. Memang ada masjid di ujung sana. Masjid itu didirikan tanpa subsidi pemerintah, tanpa bantuan partai, dan tanpa cawe-cawe pengusaha mana pun. Tapi tak terdengar raungan orang mengeja ayat-ayat al-Quran. Sunyi-sunyi saja.

Tidak seperti masjid besar di tengah pijar lampu-lampu metropolitan itu. Sejak menjelang malam hingga penghujung fajar, corong menggema tanpa henti, mengumbar suara berbalut seribu pahala. Betul, karena malam itu malam bulan suci. Kata para pemberi wejangan agama, yang tampil di teve-teve itu, di bulan ini kegiatan umat Islam, di masjid atau di manapun, harus dipacu, ramai-ramai, serentak, semarak. Semakin ramai, semakin baik. Sehingga terlihat betul syiar Islam.

Namun, masjid kecil di kampung kecil itu tidak kuatir jika dikatakan tidak menggalakkan syiar. Ia justru lebih memilih mengisi malam bulan suci dengan sunyi. Corong, yang biasa menggetarkan azan setiap waktu shalat tiba, tampak menganggur, tak mengeluarkan gemerisik apa pun. Padahal sepertiga kedua malam baru saja beranjak.

Tadinya, beberapa pemuda, dengan semangat Islam yang berkobar, berupaya agar corong tetap dinyalakan keras, sehingga suara tadarus al-Quran yang mereka lantunkan terdengar luas di seantero kampung. Tapi niat tersebut dicegah secara halus oleh sang imam yang biasa memimpin masjid ini.

Sang imam mengatakan hal yang sederhana. Hari sudah malam, kata dia, dan saatnya orang-orang kampung ini istirahat, setelah seharian bekerja di ladang, di sawah. Besok mereka juga harus memeras keringat lagi, akan dibakar matahari yang terik. Suara corong itu akan mengganggu istirahat mereka.

Bukannya dapat pahala, kata sang imam, kalian justru akan menuai dosa. Kalau ingin dapat pahala, bantulah istirahat mereka, yang berarti kalian telah membantu kebugaran tubuh mereka, sehingga mereka giat dalam mencari nafkah esok hari.

Para pemuda itu manut. Corong dimatikan, dan tersisa hanya sepi. Sang imam menganjurkan agar tadarus dilanjutkan, tanpa speaker, tanpa kebisingan. Gebyar menjadi tak penting buat sang imam. Dia tahu, Islam bisa tertanam dalam-dalam di sanubari umat juga melalui sunyi. Tanpa sorak, tanpa kembang api. Sebuah logika yang barangkali sulit dipahami imam-imam di masjid besar yang menomorsatukan syiar itu.

Di masjid megah yang lahir atas restu pengusaha maupun penguasa itu, corong membahana dari setiap sudut. Sejak dari matahari belum terbenam hingga fajar merekah, terus-menerus suara ayat-ayat al-Quran meraung. Seolah hanya dengan inilah kegagahan syiar Islam bisa tegak. Seolah tidak sah disebut masjid megah tanpa menyetel nonstop lantunan firman Ilahi keras-keras.

Meskipun terkadang, tidak ada orang yang mendaras firman di sana, melainkan hanya sekeping kaset yang diputar berulang. Toh, andai ada yang protes bahwa suara-suara itu bukannya syahdu melainkan mengganggu, dia justru yang akan terkena damprat tak bisa menghayati kalimat suci.

Dan hari ini, kita lihat logika syiar telah melebar. Tak sekadar corong di sudut-sudut masjid megah nan gagah. Islam yang sunyi akan dibilang ketinggalan, mungkin hanya dimiliki sang imam di masjid kecil di kampung kecil itu. Islam hari ini haruslah Islam yang gemebyar, penuh lampu sorot, sarat dendang kemenangan. Dan kita tahu, setiap kali memasang channel, akan tampil di sana perempuan berjilbab, lelaki berbaju koko, yang tiba-tiba sederas aliran air hujan mengucap kata-kata masya Allah, subhanallah, astaghfirullah....

Tiba-tiba juga, kita saksikan wajah-wajah tampan dan cantik menjadi fasih mengucap nasihat. Wajah-wajah itu biasa mengisi sampul-sampul majalah trendi dan bicara gosip, tapi mendadak berubah menjadi santri dan pandai melontar petuah. Ya, mungkin ini syiar--sebuah Islam yang penuh gebyar. Tapi benarkah ini syiar yang kita inginkan? Sebab hari ini, batas antara syiar dan pasar lebih tipis dari sehelai rambut.

Kita bisa bangga, Islam dikenal, Islam menjadi ramai, menjadi semarak. Kita gembira bukan main melihat bocah-bocah kecil berlomba merebut status mubalig paling jempolan. Namun, tanpa kita sadari, sebuah keanehan muncul: yang menilai fasih-tidaknya sebuah nasihat adalah seorang pelawak, seorang pemain sinetron, seorang pemandu kuis.

Kita juga lihat, di setiap jeda, ada pesan-pesan bagaimana menjalankan ibadah yang baik, bagaimana melaksanakan puasa secara sempurna. Kita bisa bangga, Islam ternyata sudah sangat mewarnai kehidupan masyarakat. Panji-panji Islam ternyata berkibar di mana-mana. Tapi mendadak kita sadar, panduan cara beribadah yang sempurna itu ternyata berbunyi lain: minum obat ini agar puasa lancar, gunakan ini biar tubuh tetap bugar, pakai kain ini supaya ibadah menjadi afdol, awali ifthar dengan makanan ini agar sejalan dengan Sunnah, dan seterusnya. Nah, di mana syiar dan di mana pasar?

Mendadak kita tersadar, nyaris seluruh yang kita banggakan sebagai syiar ternyata disetir selera pasar. Yang mendendangkan puji-pujian bukanlah murid dari pesantren ini atau madrasah itu, melainkan selebriti yang akrab dengan lagu cinta remaja. Mengapa demikian? Sebab tampang si santri, ya, tidak komersil. Dan kita tahu, ramai-ramailah pengarang dan pembawa lagu cinta remaja mencipta dan melantunkan salawat, puji-pujian Tuhan. Syiar atau pasar? Beda-beda tipis saja.

Islam kemudian memang jadi dikenal. Seluruh lapisan masyarakat bisa akrab dengan salawat. Hampir semua orang jadi tahu bagaimana cara menjalani ibadah--meski harus dengan minum obat rangkap empat. Tapi, sadar tak sadar, kita juga telah menghadapi kenyataan, Islam bisa menjadi dikenal, boleh gemebyar, hanya karena ia menghasilkan uang.

Dan itu bukan peran siapa-siapa, tapi telah dimulai langkah-langkahnya sejak dari corong masjid yang megah itu. Dimulai sejak ada orang, yang didukung masjid megah dan pengusaha dan penguasa, berpandangan bahwa Islam haruslah bersuara lantang dan penuh kerlap gemebyar.

Islam yang sunyi, di masjid kecil di kampung kecil itu, seperti tidak pernah dianggap ada. Mungkin sang imam terlalu percaya, bahwa yang lantang hanya akan mendapat sambutan wajah garang, dan bukannya senyum riang. Islam yang sunyi, meski disebut tidak menggalakkan syiar, justru telah men-syiar-kan nilai-nilai Islam paling hakiki: kedamaian dalam sikap saling pengertian. Dan apakah arti syiar, jika cuma memenuhi selera pasar? *

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Faith, Hope, and the Charter

Southeast Asian Press Alliance, December 2006
By Mujtaba Hamdi

PETALING JAYA, Malaysia – Dead men may not tell tales, but here in Malaysia, the demise of a mountaineer sparked a nationwide debate on the country’s constitution and led to the formation of a coalition of nongovernment organisations (NGOs) called Article 11. The debate was still raging as this was being written, but even then more and more Malaysians were already taking a second look at what their charter had to say about religion.

Before the death of popular mountaineer Moorthy Maniam on December 20, 2005, and and the subsequent fight over his body between his wife Kaliammal and Majlis Agama Islam Wilayah Persekutuan (the Islamic Religious Council of the Federal Territory), few Malaysians had probably given any thought to the constitutional provision regarding religion (Article 11). The country’s leaders, after all, like to emphasise Malaysia’s multi-cultural heritage, as well as its tolerance of various faiths – of which there are quite a few in Malaysia. Almost 60 percent of the 25.6 million Malaysians are Muslim, while Buddhists make up some 19 percent. About nine percent are Christian, and six percent Hindu. Followers of Confucius, tribal religions, and other faiths make up the rest.

Then Moorthy died. His family wanted to bury him as a Hindu, but the Islamic Religious Council wanted the army lance corporal -- who was considered a national hero, being the first Malaysian to scale Mt. Everest -- buried according to Muslim rites. Two days later, the Syariah Court decreed that Moorthy had converted to Islam before he passed away, and was even known as Muhammad Abdullah.

According to the Malaysian Constitution, Islam is the religion of the Federation of Malaysia. But even if it also says other faiths may be practised in peace and harmony, the case of Moorthy -- along with other previous legal disputes involving religion -- has led some people to observe that minority religions often wind up at the losing end whenever the other party happens to be Muslim.

It was with such thoughts that I arrived at the office of Sisters in Islam (SIS) here in Petaling Jaya, a satellite city of Kuala Lumpur, to meet up with Norhayati Kaprawi, the group’s programme manager for public education. SIS was among the initiators of Article 11, which groups together 13 NGOs that are bent on educating Malaysians on the charter’s provisions regarding religion.

After some small talk, we began discussing events that had taken place recently and touched on trends in religious worship in Malaysia and Indonesia, two nations that share a common linguistic heritage and which are both predominantly Muslim. Recently, both countries have also had to face questions about religious tolerance – or more precisely, the supposed lack of it among some sectors in their respective societies.

I asked Norhayati what Article 11 was planning next in the aftermath of the May 14, 2006 incident in the northern island of Penang, where the coalition’s forum, “Federal Constitution: Protection for All”, had been disrupted by some 200 Muslim demonstrators.

Norhayati’s reply was confident: “We will still continue whatever our schedule is, because we plan to do a road show.”

Conversion and apostasy

The “Federal Constitution: Protection for All” forum in Penang, in fact, was part of that road show. Similar forums had previously been held in Petaling Jaya and Malacca, a historic city 150 km south of the capital city, and more forums had been slated for other towns. When we met, neither Norhayati nor I had any inkling that coalition’s road show would be put in limbo following the government’s directive to stop sensitive discourse on race and religion -- especially Article 11’s forums. As Norhayati stressed, the road show “was just to explain to the people what the Constitution says”.

Because the Constitution had declared Islam as the religion of the Federation, some had interpreted that to mean that Malaysia is an Islamic country or state. Others, though, have insisted the country was meant to be secular, since the charter also emphasises respect for other religions.

It was not until 1988, however, that the interpretation of Malaysia as an Islamic state began to gain more ground. That was when a Constitutional amendment gave the Syariah Court jurisdiction over all matters relating to Islam. Since then civil courts have been reluctant to touch such issues. As a result controversies such as those involving the dead mountaineer have erupted, and Article 11 was formed and pushed to go on the road to explain matters to the people.

The test case regarding conflicting jurisdiction of syariah and civil courts in Malaysia in fact began a good three years before Moorthy’s death: Shamala Sathiyaseelan v Dr. Jeyaganesh C. Mogarajah.

Shamala and Jeyaganesh used to be married. They had two children, Saktiswaran and Theiviswaran. Jeyaganesh, like Shamala, was a Hindu. In 2002, however, he converted to Islam and changed his name to Muhammad Ridzwan Mogarajah. He then registered the children as Muslims without Shamala’s knowledge and consent, and also obtained a custody order for the children from a syariah court.

Shamala contested this all this all the way to the High Court and eventually regained custody of her children. But the court explicitly cautioned her from "influencing the infants' religious belief by teaching them her articles of faith or by making them eat pork". Otherwise, it said, she could lose them again. The rationale given was that the court "cannot run away from the fact that the two infant children are now muallaf (converts to Islam)”.

When Shamala went to a civil court to cancel her children’s new religious status, Justice Faiza Thamby Chik said that only syariah court had jurisdiction in such matters.

In 2001, Justice Chik had also held that Lina Joy, a woman in her 40s who had converted to Christianity, was still a Muslim and could not leave the faith. The magistrate also said the matter remained within the jurisdiction of syariah courts.

Lina used to be known as Azlina Jailani before she converted to Christianity in 1997. She applied to have the information on her identity card changed to reflect her new religious status, but the National Registration’s Department (NRD) refused to make the changes. An NRD officer stated in 1999 that they could not comply with Lina’s wish unless a syariah court decided in her favour.

After receiving Justice Chik’s decision, Lina filed an appeal. But Justice Abdul Aziz Mohammad and Justice Ariffin Zakaria upheld the previous decision, reasoning that only syariah courts had the right to decide on the case. Justice Gopal Sri Ram saw it differently, but his was a minority view.

The case of the mountaineer

Hands down, though, it is Moorthy’s case that has attracted the most attention so far. Like many other Indian Malaysians, Moorthy was born a Hindu and brought up as one. When he and Kaliammal married in 1995, two years before his historic climb of Mt. Everest, they did so at a temple in Taman Selayang, in Selangor state. For much of his life, he was known as a faithful Hindu who observed all the usual religious customs. According to Kaliammal, throughout their marriage, Moorthy often prayed in the temple and observed Thaipusam (a Hindu festival to honour Lord Murugan) by shaving his hair, carrying a paal kodam (milk pot) and using holy ash in Batu Caves, the most popular and famous Hindu pilgrimage site in Selangor.

But tragedy struck on August 14, 1998. While Moorthy was in a training camp, he had an accident that left him paralysed from waist down. His memory was also affected.

More bad luck followed. When he was visiting a disabled persons centre, Moorthy fell from his wheelchair. He was immediately taken to the nearby Selayang Hospital. Unfortunately, it was not equipped adequately, and Moorthy was transferred to the Kuala Lumpur Hospital while he was still in a coma. Yet it was not until that fateful day in December 2005 that his heart finally stopped beating.

Moorthy’s body was not immediately buried because his religious status was soon in dispute. Kaliammal found herself up against the Islamic Religious Council, insisting that her husband had been a Hindu his entire life, not a Muslim. Kaliammal also insisted the document that stated Moorthy had converted to Islam stood on weak legal ground. She thus proceeded with legal action to get the Kuala Lumpur Hospital to return her husband’s body to her and the family, and to prohibit the Council from taking Moorthy’s body away from the hospital.

In her affidavit, Kaliammal reiterated that Moorthy had been a devout Hindu. As late as 2005, using a wheelchair, he had taken part in a Hindu ceremony, carrying a paal kodam at Batu Caves. Members of the People’s Volunteer Corps (Rela) helped Moorthy reach the Sri Subramaniam temple, located in a cave at the top of a 272-step staircase.

Losing Moorthy all over again

Kaliammal said she had also witnessed Moorthy eating pork, consuming liquor, and carrying out other deeds that showed that he was not a Muslim. For instance, on November 1, 2005 Moorthy’s elder brother, Gophal, brought a box of alcoholic drinks for Moorthy. Together with other guests, Moorthy shared the drink. Furthermore, said Kaliammal, Moorthy had never been circumcised. Moorthy’s close friend, Chandiran Periasamy, and older brother, Tenmuli Maniam also drew up affidavits that supported Kaliammal’s claims regarding Moorthy’s faith.

But Justice Mohd Raus Sharif said simply that the civil court had no right to hear a case that had been already decided by a syariah court. The decision, he added, was made with reference to Section 121 (1A) of the Constitution, which states that the High Courts and inferior courts shall have no jurisdiction in respect of any matter within the jurisdiction of the syariah courts.

The decision meant Kaliammal and her family had no chance to pay their last respects - according to Hindu rites – to Moorthy. On the same day the civil court’s decision was handed down, the Islamic Religious Council took the body of Moorthy alias Muhammad Abdullah from the hospital under tight police security. At noon, the Council buried his body at the Taman Ibukota cemetery in Gombak, Selangor; Kaliammal had lost Moorthy all over again.

The grieving widow nonetheless continued to seek redress. On January 24, 2006, she applied for the case to be reviewed, listing 50 arguments to support her position. On June 20, the hearing began.

In the meantime, about 30 Hindu organisations under a coalition called Hindu Rights Action Force (Hindraf) had petitioned the King, asking him to suspend Justice Mohd Raus Sharif and remove him from the bench. In its petition, Hindraf said the justice had failed to perform his duty as mandated by the Constitution, and had committed serious misconduct as judge. Hindraf Press Secretary P. Waytha Moorthy said, “We have no choice but to submit the petition to the King as the law has failed to take care of minority rights.”

Road show on rights

Then of course there has been Article 11, which aside from SIS includes the Women’s Aid Organisation (WAO), the All Women’s Action Society (Awam), the Women’s Development Collective (WDC), the Malaysian Consultative Council of Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism and Sikhism (MCCBCHS), the Catholic Lawyers Society, the Interfaith Spiritual Fellowship, the Bar Council of Malaysia, the Pure Life Society, the Vivekananda Youth Group, Suara Rakyat Malaysia (Malaysian People’s Voice) or Suaram, the National Human Rights Society (Hakam), and the Malaysian Civil Liberties Society (MCLS).

The coalition’s road show, with the theme “protection for all”, had kicked off with a forum on March 12, 2006 here in Petaling Jaya. Among the speakers during the half-day event were activists and lawyers, including WAO executive director Ivy Josiah, MCLS founder Zaid Ibrahim, lawyer Malik Imtiaz, former Bar Council president Dr. Cyrus Das, and constitutional law scholar Dr. Shad Saleem Faruqi.

Ivy Josiah expressed her regret over Moorthy, Shamala, Lina and other similar cases: “The current trend is divisive and unhealthy as it leads to the creation of two separate societies within one country,” she said. During the discussion session, many among the 700 people in the audience took their turn voicing their concern. Among them was a Muslim Malay who complained that even Muslims were not allowed to have different insights and practices that differed from that accepted by more powerful sectors.

At the end of the forum, people signed a petition aimed at protecting the right to religious freedom under the Constitution. All in, 450 signatures were collected as a sign of support and solidarity. The petition maintained that Malaysia is not an Islamic state.

“The Supreme Court decision in Che Omar Che Soh (1988) reaffirmed that ‘the law in this country is still what it is today, secular law’,” it said. “In recent cases in the High Courts, judges have declined to adjudicate on pressing issues simply because they involve some elements of Islamic law, leaving litigants without any remedy. This is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs and one which no civil society must endure.”

Support and protests

To broaden public support for the petition, an online service was provided to enable others to express their support and to participate through a website. The plan was to have the petition to be forwarded to the prime minister once an optimum number of signatures was gathered.

April 22, 2006 marked Malacca’s turn to host an Article 11 forum. This time, almost 600 people attended. The first speaker, WAO president Meera Samanther, discussed the Moorthy dispute. Then Dr Shad Saleem discussed section 121 (1A) that was always referred to by the judges. Dr. Shad insisted that any decisions that touched on fundamental rights fell under the jurisdiction of the civil courts, not the syariah courts.

On May 14, 2005 came the forum in Penang that attracted some 200 people. But it was disrupted when an equal number of people chanted outside where the forum was being held, and demanded that it be called off. Read the pamphlets being given away by the protesters: “War against Liberal Islam!” and “The laws of Allah precede Human Rights!”

Several protesters were also able to get the hotel and into the forum, where they again demanded that it be stopped. Half an hour later, and before a couple of the invited speakers had a chance to speak, police “advised” the organisers to stop the proceedings.

“A challenge to syariah”

For several days after, the Penang incident was front-page news. Mohd Azmi Abdul Hamid who had been reported as the man behind the protest organised by Badan Bertindak Anti-IFC (The Anti Inter-Faith Commission Body) or Badai explained to the New Sunday Times:” This forum is being seen by Muslims as a challenge to syariah. We cannot allow this.”

For Azmi, the forums not only undermined syariah courts but also attempted to condone apostasy. As for Article 11’s signature campaign for its petition, he said, “They are collecting signatures to make it look like syariah is full of injustice.”

Another media report cited Hafiz Nordin, the secretary-general of the Penang chapter of the Ulamas Association of Malaysia, as saying that the protesters were worried that the forum would discuss apostasy. “We had intended to stop their road shows in Kuala Lumpur and Malacca, but since it was too late for that, we decided to stop that in Penang,” he said.

With strident statements dogging its every step, Article 11 decided to hold a press conference, during which Ivy Josiah announced that the coalition would have another forum, this time in Johor Baru. “This forum was not organised to insult any religions or ethnic group,” she said.

Yet threats came pouring in anyway, apparently to force Article 11 to cancel the forum. Observed Josiah, who reported that WAO had received threatening text messages and phone calls: “Threats and intimidation of this kind are totally unnecessary.”

Another forum cut short

The Article 11 forum in Johor Baru pushed through on July 22, 2006. But like in Penang, it was cut short on recommendations from the police. The Star newspaper later reported that at least 400 protesters from various Islamic groups gathered outside the venue, denouncing the forum as an “anti-Islam act". They also declared, "We are ready to sacrifice for Islam."

Three days after, Prime Minister Abdullah Badawi issued an executive order ending all planned forums of Article 11 coalition for fear of stoking religious fervour. The order was hailed by various Islamic groups such as Badai, as well as by muftis and several Muslim NGOs. They said it was a long-awaited call of the Muslim majority in Malaysia.

In a statement, Badai stressed that it had urged the premier to act against the Article 11 coalition in a memorandum submitted in early March.

But not all Muslim groups apparently thought the same. The deputy president of the Islamic missionary group Jamaah Islah Malaysia (JIM), Syed Ibrahim Syed Noh, told the online publication Malaysiakini that the Malaysian government should have taken a more amicable approach over discussions on religious freedom.

“Generally speaking, there should not be any suppression of the expression of opinions on inter-religious issues,” said Syed Ibrahim. “These are sensitive issues. Racial and religious issues are always sensitive but suppression is not a solution either.”

Prior to the stoppage of the Article 11 forums, JIM and even the Islamic political party Parti Islam Semalaysia (PAS) had softened their stance, and eventually yielded to the calls to sit down and discuss the controversial issues regarding the practice of other religions in Malaysia.

Discussions and diversity

SIS’s Norhayati would view these as indications that the mainstream Muslim society in Malaysia is ready to face the questions on religious freedom. She would also be quoted as saying, “Time will come when my fellow Muslims will realise that there is really a need to discuss these issues. Maybe some (groups) are not ready yet but I know it will come.”

But when I had an hour-long chat with her at the SIS headquarters, she was still lamenting how many Muslim groups in Malaysia seemed to be interpreting Islam very narrowly.

“There is not much diversity in Malaysia,” she said. “It is either black or white. Many people are surprised as (they have this) image of (a) modern, open-minded Malaysia. In fact, it is closed and rigid. It appears liberal outside, but too conservative towards religious matters.”

Norhayati then showed me a column that ran that day in a local newspaper. “Look at this,” she said, and I followed her finger to this line: “‘Islam... forbids apostasy. Therefore, a Muslim cannot leave Islam as it is both a crime and a sin."

The title of the piece was “Freedom to do what is right.” Its argument was that every human being has rights, but not the right to do wrong. Leaving Islam was wrong; therefore, there was no right to opt out of Islam.

Norhayati and I were still looking the article over when SIS director Zainah Anwar joined us. “Just clear cut, as if there is no other view: ‘Islam forbids apostasy,’” said Zainah, when she saw what we were reading. “As if (the) Koran never states that ‘let there be no compulsion in religion’,” she added, referring to the sentence la ikraha fid-din in al-Baqarah verse 256.

“(In fact) many ulamas (scholars) believe that there is freedom of worship,” Zainah noted. “Tantawi believes in freedom of religion.” She was referring to Sheikh Muhammad Sayyid al-Tantawi, the Grand Mufti of Al-Azhar in Cairo, Egypt.

Norhayati and Zainah then compared the state of Islam in Malaysia to that in Indonesia. They saw Indonesia as being more open-minded, free to debate and not prone to black-and-white views regarding religion. They also said that Indonesia’s Islamic boarding schools, known as pesantrens, had a strong tradition of tolerance. “Progressive scholars (are) more dominant in Indonesia,” they concluded.

More or less, I shared their view about the pesantrens, as I have experienced studying in them. But much as I wanted to agree with them about progressive scholars being dominant in Indonesia, I found myself hesitating. With violence on behalf of Islam occurring more often in my homeland, I just wasn’t sure how accurate that observation was. – With additional reporting by Allen V. Estabillo

Mujtaba Hamdi is a writer from Syir'ah, a monthly Muslim magazine in Jakarta that promotes religious openness and diversity. This story was written originally in Bahasa Indonesia.

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