Salleh Ben Joned and the Art of the Pantun (by Alima Joned)

By Alima Joned

My brother Salleh and I are as different as night and day. At 5’ 11” he is tall for a Malay, with the rugged sexy looks of a Mick Jagger. In contrast, I am no Malay beauty, and I am also so short that Salleh once teased I must have stopped growing at the age of four.

We have different temperaments. And we pursued totally different career paths. He found his calling in poetry, I found a career in law.

A poet first and foremost, Salleh was also a columnist and essayist, writing the popular column ‘As I Please’ for the literary page of Malaysia’s major newspaper the New Straits Times in the 90s.

In introducing Salleh’s collection of essays and columns, Nothing is Sacred, Malaysian poet Wong Phui Nam wrote:

More than anyone else, Salleh contributed to the rapid success of the [literary] page. Readers recognised immediately his wit, ironic humour, biting criticism, the rare capacity to entertain and verbal vigour. Here was a man who had much to say and he said it in a style that made his words bring to the reader his very presence. But if it were only a matter of style, however provocative and highly entertaining As I Please was, it would, of course, have turned out to be of passing interest. What it was about would by now be passé, eight years down the road into a new century.  But the many things Salleh had to say were then, and still are, important and relevant.

Salleh lives and breathes words, while I simply use them to make a living. So while I enjoyed his columns, back then I couldn’t say the same about his poetry.

But all that changed recently after I re-read a couple of his old columns that helped me rediscover the beauty of pantuns.**

Rediscovering the beauty of pantuns

The first column, titled "Brother Henri, Honorary Malay," was on the French writer, Henri Fauconnier, whose semi-autobiographical book The Soul of Malaya, is interspersed with pantuns and Malay proverbs.

Salleh considers the book to be the best book ever written by a European about the Malays – their psyche and sensibility.

He notes in particular how Rolain, Fauconnier’s main character in the novel, ruminates on the nature of the Malays, the uniqueness of the Malay language, and the aesthetics of the pantun form.

I had already read the book some years before, but picked it up again to see what Salleh was talking about.

Growing up as a kampong girl myself, I was familiar with popular pantuns, but in Fauconnier’s book I found unfamiliar and at times naughty pantuns that drew a smile to my face.

In another column, "Salacious Pleasures of Pantuns," Salleh argues if people read a pantun properly, sensitive to the semantic and cultural resonance of key words, they would see more than the surface evocation.

For these reasons, pantuns were much beloved by the late renowned translator, poet and scholar Burton Raffel. Unfortunately, as Raffel notes in The Art of Translating Poetry, the pantun is a kind of poetic form that “has not travelled well.”
Due to the nature and the uniqueness of the Malay language, pantuns are not easy to translate.  When translating a pantun, in Raffel’s view, it is difficult for a translator to capture “the true thrill of the form’s careful, subtle variations.” Raffel seems to say the job is almost impossible, even if the translator is himself a poet with the mastery of both languages.

Yet, I think Salleh has managed to do a pretty good job at meeting this challenge. Consider two translations of the opening lines of this classic pantun:

Tanam padi di Bukit Jeram
Tanam keduduk atas batu
Macam mana hati tak geram
Menengok tetek menolak baju

In Fauconnier’s book, we are given a literal translation.

Planting rice on Jeram hill
Rhododendrons on a rock
However, could my heart keep still
Seeing her breasts move beneath her frock?

To retain the thrill of the original, Salleh translates this classic as follows:

Plant the padi with a thrust
Stroke the seedlings with dew
It drives you crazy with lust
To see the tits tilting the baju (blouse)

Salleh’s translation of the first two lines is a very free rendering of the original.

Readers who appreciate the fluidity of Salleh’s translation would forgive him for taking liberty with the translation so that the thrill and beauty of the original language can be retained.

I had so much fun reading this classic pantun after discovering it in Fauconnier's book, especially when reading it aloud to my sisters – who have become increasingly religious in recent years.

But beyond fun, Salleh argues pantuns are a way of understanding the Malay sensibility:

The central word for the pantun, hati (literally liver, but the English equivalent here would be heart), is also the key word in Malay folk physiology. The liver to the Malays is traditionally the seat of the passions. (This was also the case in ancient English belief: you can find it surviving in Shakespeare’s plays and poems.) The hati, the organ that conceals the secret of the Malay as a creature of feelings and passions, is vital to any attempt to understand the race. If you want to know what the hati is to the Malay, soak yourself in the pantuns.

Salleh’s use of the pantun form

Salleh also writes poetry in pantun form himself. Many of his pantuns are witty and playful. But they can be serious at the same time – noting unpleasant truths about his race and country. There’s a “courageous seriousness,” according to Margaret Drabble in her introduction to the first collection of Salleh’s columns, As I Please, “beneath the wit and the invective of Salleh’s writings.”

Below is Salleh’s poem in pantun form inspired by the Anwar Ibrahim imbroglio of 1998, which appears in his book Adam’s Dream:

What makes the parrot a very queer bird?
Its talent to mimic and its hooked bill.

Alima & Salleh in 1977

 

What makes the shrill patriot a cringing turd?
Because he has the brain of a mandrill.

Why does the katak love its tempurung?
It’s so cozy and good for inbreeding.
What do we always confuse right and wrong?
Because of our refined Malay upbringing.

Why do pigs really love to wallow in shit?
Because they are pigs and true to their kind.
Why do we swallow whole those affidavits?
Cause we have an ape’s mouth and a mouse’s mind.

Why do the gullible value snake vomit?
Because old superstition taught them to.
Our Anwar as seditious sodomite?
Those Front buggers swear to it; it must be true.

When is a cabinet very valuable?
When you have bits of skeletons to hide.
When does a DPM become dispensable?
When the PM says he is a Jekyll-and-Hyde.

Why do snakes love so much to slither in slime?
Because that is where they get their best feed.
“Ministers get sucked” all the bloody time?
What a revealing typo that was indeed.

Why are all the sawah full of tikus?
Because the harvest’s such a miracle.
What makes our Mahashita think he’s Zeus?
Thanks to our media that’s so farcical.

katak – frog
tempurong – coconut shell
sawah – padi field
tikus - mice

Many of Salleh’s pantuns are expressions of love – for his wife Halimaton, his children and friends.

Salleh’s poetry has drawn fans and detractors alike

It is not my place to comment on his contribution to Malaysian literature but I am curious what lovers of language and poetry think about his musings on pantuns.

And, if, like me, you had no education in poetry, nor any natural talent for it, this Malay form may be the perfect starting point for gaining a better appreciation of poetry – and Malay culture.

After a decade in a foreign land, my brother came back to Malaysia anxious to recover his lost cultural self.

Being a man of words, he naturally made attempts to repossess his mother tongue and began to write prose and poetry in Malay, making innovations in the art of pantun along the way.

Some claim my brother’s work is too Westernised – to the extent that he has betrayed his race and religion, and lost his Malayness.

In some ways Salleh is quite Westernised – he acknowledges this. But he is still very much Malay and so terribly proud of it. In his column The (Malay) Malaysian Writer’s Dilemma, he writes:

I am aware that I am in some ways quite Westernised, and I am not embarrassed by it. In fact, there are elements in my Westernisation that I am quite happy about, which I’d like to believe have made me a better human being and hopefully a better writer. But I also feel I am still, in some things, incorrigibly Malay. And I don’t regret that either. In fact, there are things about 'Malayness' (not to be confused with ‘Bumiputraness’) and in the cultural heritage of my race that I am terribly proud of. That’s why I like Lin Yutang’s unusual definition of patriotism (or eating, it doesn’t really matter which) as love for the good things one ate in one’s childhood. I am quite certain that these things, in my case sambal belacan (Malay delicacy) and cencalok (Malay delicacy), both literal and metaphorical, inform my writing, especially the poetry. Directly or indirectly, they give much of whatever energy my writing can claim to have.  

My brother is also “incorrigibly” Malay as far as the pantun is concerned. In their simplicity and directness, pantuns are indeed beautiful and elegant. Through his artful and skillful translation, my brother enables native and non-native speakers of Malay, poets and non-poets, to truly appreciate the aesthetics and the beauty of classical pantuns. In writing his own pantuns, making innovations along the way, he uses the form to speak on weighty matters with lightness no one else could. Either way, my brother has made the art of pantun not only travel well, but travel further.

31 December 2018

_______

Alima Joned is a lawyer in private practice in Washington, DC. 

** The pantun is a classical Malay poetry form with four line verses, usually with the rhyming scheme of a-b-a-b. The first two lines are linked in some way to the second two. As long as the form is followed, a pantun can be on anything, from an irony of fate to words of advice to an expression of love.
 

Salleh Ben Joned and Nation Building (by Alima Joned)

Unity in Diversity (photo courtesy of the New Straits Times)

By Alima Joned

Salleh Ben Joned is a philosophic pragmatist who believes multiculturalism, colloquially known as ‘kebudayaan rojak’, is good for nation building. His sister Alima Joned reviews four of her brother’s essays on this theme, written nearly 20 years ago, after the unveiling of Malaysia’s Vision 2020 in 1991. She muses about her brother’s visions in the context of Malaysia today. 

After the publication of my blog piece titled "Salleh Ben Joned and the Art of the Pantun," I received a message that reads in part:

I enjoyed reading your post on LinkedIn about your brother’s poetry …. Wonderful demonstration of your love and admiration for your brother, and for your country of origin and culture. I particularly like this quote from his writing, “That’s why I like Lin Yutang’s unusual definition of patriotism (or eating, it doesn’t really matter which) as love for the good things one ate in one’s childhood.” We would be so much better a person if we all thought of “patriotism” in those terms. Beautiful piece.

I, of course, was thrilled that this high-priced lawyer (based in the United States, no less, and totally lacking knowledge of the cultural references made in my article) took a few minutes from his billable hours not only to read, but to make comments. Beyond giving me this (cheap) thrill, the comments affirm the universal appeal of the poetic language; it enables us to best make sense of our deep emotions, such as love for our country

Patriotism vs. Nationalism

I also like Lin Yutang’s food-based definition of patriotism. In this moment of the world we live in, this definition of patriotism is all the more important as the term is often confused with nationalism.

Consider, for example, how these terms are defined by The Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary Online. “Patriotism,” in this dictionary, is a “love of your country and willingness to defend it.” The term “nationalism” is defined as a “feeling of love for and pride in your country; a feeling that your country is better than any other.’’ Not everyone can see the distinction between the two.  Many do. 

Unlike patriotism, nationalism has political dimensions and implies superiority, often racial superiority. In today’s politically-charged climate in the United States for example, nationalism is associated with white nationalism, an ideology that entails a sentiment of superiority of the white race, and a belief that politics should advance the interests of white people at the expense of non-whites. This ideology runs counter to democratic ideals. Nationalism may be useful to unite a country when faced with external enemies, perhaps. Domestically, however, it can be divisive.

For Malaysians, the appeal of Lin Yutang’s idea of patriotism as love for the good things one ate in one’s childhood is unmistakable. What’s not to like about it? The love for Malaysia is the love for nasi lemak (coconut rice), roti canai (flat and flaky pan-fried bread) and char kueh teow (wok-fried flat noodles) – the foods we grew up with, and we feel this love no matter where in the world we end up.

Vision 2020 and the Challenge of Nation Building

In 1991, Prime Minister Tun Dr. Mahathir articulated the vision that by 2020 Malaysia would be a fully developed nation “economically, politically, socially, spiritually, psychologically and culturally.” By 2020, the Prime Minister added: “[W]e must be fully developed in terms of national unity and social-cohesion, in terms of our economy, in terms of social justice, political stability, system of government, quality of life, social and spiritual values, national pride and confidence.” (Malaysia: The Way Forward - Vision 2020)

Having articulated this vision, the Prime Minister identified nine challenges that had to be overcome in order to realize this vision. The first of these was the challenge of establishing a united Malaysian nation with a sense of shared destiny. This had to be a nation at peace with itself, territorially, and ethnically integrated, living in harmony and full and fair partnership, made up of one 'Bangsa Malaysia' with political loyalty and dedication to the nation.

In response to a call by the Prime Minister for critical discussion of his Vision 2020, the Department of Anthropology and Sociology of Universiti Kebangsaan published a booklet called Wawasan 2020 dan Pembinaan Bangsa Malaysia (Vision 2020 and the Creation of the Malaysian Race).

This booklet, the outcome of a dialogue by a group of UKM academics in 1991, was the focus of Salleh’s column with the curious (but delicious) title, Rojak is Good for Nation Building (1st July 1992).

Rojak is a spicy fruit or vegetable salad and also a term meaning ‘mixture’ or ‘eclectic mix’ in Malay; kebudayaan rojak is a colloquial expression for multiculturalism or cultural pluralism.

Rojak is Good for Nation Building

According to Salleh, the UKM academics argued two reasons why a true Malaysian nation had failed to emerge. He took issue with both arguments.

The first argument was that a united nation had been hampered by the unwillingness of the majority of non-Malays and a section of the Malay elite to show a genuine and full commitment to the National Language. These recalcitrant Malaysians generally favoured the English language, allowing the language of our former colonial masters to dominate our public life. It really saddened these academics that a sizeable section of the Malay elite, especially businessmen, preferred to speak in English, not only to non-Malays, but also amongst themselves. Worst still, so the complaint went, “they even think in English!”

Salleh was also amused with the concern expressed by one of these academics that the widespread use of English, left unchecked, would have a fearful outcome: Bangsa Malaysia in the year 2020 may even be fluent in English. “I didn’t know that to be fluent in the lingua franca of the world is a bad thing,” Salleh wittily retorted.

Salleh’s position on the use of English is well-known. For him, English has an important role within our multi-ethnic society, not just as a tool to communicate with the outside world. In a column titled Once Again, English, Our English (5th January 1994), he argues in speaking English, Malaysians will not lose their Malaysian identity or their Malaysian soul. He says the English we speak belongs, not to the Mat Salleh (colloquially, ‘white men’), but to Malaysians themselves. He writes:

A language belongs to those who speak it. It’s as simple as that. Given this fact, and that language communicates experience and is capable of transcending the boundaries of the culture of its origin – given all this, then the English we speak in Malaysia today belongs to us. It’s our English; along with BM it expresses our ‘soul’, with all its contradictions and confusions, as much as our social and material needs.

In another column titled Be Sophisticated and Silly All the Way (12th January 1994) Salleh discusses the then controversial policy shift to place emphasis on English while maintaining the National Language policy and the problem of translating English text books into Malay. There Salleh considers it a privilege, not an ideological shortcoming, for Malaysia to be bilingual.

The second argument made by the UKM academics was that a united Malaysian nation had failed because of the persistence of kebudayaan rojak - despite the demands by the Malay literati for a full implementation of the National Cultural Policy.**

The concern regarding the persistence of kebudayaan rojak is of special interest to me. As I live abroad, and live as a minority, I have become convinced more than ever of the value of multiculturalism - for both my country of residence and my native country.

Malaysian rojak (from lifestylefood.com.au)

It is obvious from my visits to Malaysia that the society is more divided then ever and the truly united Malaysia in Vision 2020 remains elusive. The reasons are many and complicated but the persistence of kebudayaan rojak is certainly not to be blamed for the failure of Malaysian nationhood. Still, back in 1991 the UKM academics argued just this.

As Salleh explains, the UKM academics at that time were troubled that the Government allowed English to be visible in many areas of public life and failed to apply the National Language law forcefully. So troubled they were that they proposed legislation, a National Culture Act to “ensure the end of kebudayaan rojak.”

Salleh makes the point that a law to end kebudayaan rojak was futile. Instead, he suggests, we should embrace cultural pluralism fully so that the vision of Malaysia developed in every aspect could be realized. In Salleh’s words:

As realists have often pointed out, kebudayaan rojak is inevitable given the multi-ethnic nature of our society in which no one race truly dominates in terms of numbers. Anyway, what’s wrong with kebudayaan rojak? Malaysians like rojak. It’s good for them, and it helps nation-building. Unity in diversity is certainly better for the vitality of our cultural life than the imposition of an artificially conceived national culture through legislation. A living culture, as everyone knows, grows naturally; it cannot be programmed or legislated according to an abstract recipe.

Indeed, unity in diversity, oneness notwithstanding different races, ethnics, faiths, languages will only make Malaysia all the richer in every sense.

Writers and Nation Building

2020 is now just around the corner. Yet we are no closer to meeting the challenge of building a united country, as envisioned by the Prime Minister back in 1991. Writers, like everyone in the nation, have a responsibility to help here.  In fact, as many of Salleh’s essays suggest, they have an awesome responsibility.

For example, in Different Lamps but the Same Light (9th September 1992), he calls on his fellow writers (the sasterawans) to use their art to promote racial and religious harmony. The essay was inspired by the dance performance of Mavin Khoo (along with Ramli Ibrahim and Guna) of Varnam, said to be the most challenging dance in the Bharata Natyam repertoire. Salleh found the dance dazzlingly beautiful and spiritual as it captured the intercourse between the “heavenly body and celestial earth,” enacting and celebrating the “concord between man and man, tribe and tribe, us and them, god earthy and God transcendent.” Writers, Salleh suggests, should meditate on the ultimate Truth, the One, and invoke the One - the Word- because they (the writers) can unite “words that divide.”

He writes:

Sasterawans of Malaysia, consider truly the unity of Truth, of Tawhid, and let your God-given imagination truly live in the many-in-the-one, and ultimately in the One-in-the-many; in the very breadth of God-the-Creator-God-the-Destroyer-God-the-Regenerator. Indeed, there is no god but God. Think of Mavin, Guna, and, of course Ramli behind them. Oneness of Being manifests itself through the vessel of their bodies. Why can’t the reality they affirm in the sacred dance of the body be similarly affirmed in the sacred dance of speech? The Word that unites words that divide – my fellow sasterawans, we must together meditate on it. 

So, he asks writers to use their imagination and their art for the unity of Malaysians, creating Bangsa Malaysia. He pleads with them not to use hurtful words in their writings. His exact words:

And [writers] please try to think twice, thrice, a hundred, even a thousand times, before you throw around words like murtad (apostate), kafir (infidel), syirik (polytheism), munafik (hypocrite) so indiscriminately, so self-righteously, sanctimoniously - and, may Allah be my witness, so un-Islamically.

(As a lawyer and a Malay who cherishes the best in my traditional and uncorrupted Malay upbringing, I, too, urge writers and all, especially those in the position of power, to be mindful of their language.) 

Malaysian literature, Salleh adds, needs poets and writers who are truly liberated from the constrictions of rigid doctrines and laws and who open their hearts and minds to the vision of the great Sufi poet, Jalaluddin Rumi in his poem The Song of the Reed. If we can hear the Reed, he says, we will appreciate the truth affirmed by Rumi in another poem, the Masnawi:

The lamps are different, but the Light is the same: 

It comes from the Beyond…

This is one Truth that is true.

***

Deeply rooted in his Malay heritage, my brother has no fear about losing his Malay identity or his Malay soul simply because he also writes in English or promotes bilingualism. He also believes a writer must take the long view all the time and be alert to temptations that can compromise his art and the independence of his mind. He is a cultural pluralist, pure and simple. He is a Lin Yutang patriot, one who cares deeply for his country - for a united Malaysia that is at peace with itself and ethnically integrated, living in harmony and in full and fair partnership, made up of one Bangsa Malaysia. That is the vision the Prime Minister had back in 1991. That is the vision most of us share.

December 2019

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Alima Joned is a lawyer in private practice in Washington, DC. 

** The National Culture Policy was put in place in the aftermath of the 1969 political crisis and was originally intended to encourage national unity, but subsequently emerged as an initiative to encourage national identity through the arts.