By Afiqa

Years ago, I learned of Malay classical and modern manuscripts on sex and erotic imageries by Malay women writers at a talk. Most were written under pseudonyms or not given credit if not a man. But a Malay women writer, Khatijah Terung, struck me with her bold, vulnerable, and erotic writing. Social control made it difficult and unsafe for the works of writers of marginalized genders such as women and trans people to make it into pop culture and be celebrated. So, you can imagine my excitement to finally see some of the documentation unearthed! 

But the bigger question was: what was left out or hidden, and why? Missing the point, a young Malay man in the audience stood up and demanded that we highlight works of literature that were indah — meaning poetic and beautiful. The panelists rushed to the writer’s defense and advised him to respect her creative process and that she was merely doing her job as a writer who recorded events of her time.

It’s so important and powerful to own your narratives because only you can give them accurate representation. So, when the opportunity came, I had to say yes to joining the Voices workshop and recording my story! I wanted to learn how my story had evolved as my understanding of my survivorship crystallizes over time. 

But I’ll be honest. I could never get used to hearing my spoken voice tell a story this intimate and vulnerable. The digital storytelling process had me confront parts of myself I hadn’t confronted before. Writing under a pseudonym, for instance, shielded me from baring myself entirely to the world. I threaded one needle at a time. Riffing off from memory during the sharing circle helped me find a new angle to my story. It made me realize that I took for granted my privilege to have recurring conversations with my mother about my sunat (“circumcision” in Malay). 

I asked her about my childhood photos, and she reminded me of my love for baju kurung (a two-set traditional Malay attire). I even went to the clinic where my sunat may have taken place. I remember that rainy day, ominous and uncomfortable. I took pictures of the surroundings for my illustrator. Across the road, I let myself grieve. 

Putting this together, I can’t begin to tell you the whirlwind of emotions I felt. I dug through the emotional graveyard that is my photo gallery for old stills and clips of water lily pads I took at the golden hour, as well as childhood albums my mother had saved from my bad teenage decisions, when I scanned old photos for Facebook and discarded the physical evidence for good. And there it was, the yellow baju kurung that I loved. I had worn it to my grandmother’s wake and funeral when I was two. Along with clips of pouring water over Corelle dinnerware, I weaved elements of my Malay culture and upbringing into the video I created to tell my story. 

To accompany the audio clips of Malay dramas, I found Lagu Nuri Terbang Malam (“Song of the Bird that Flies at Night”) by Qasim (1903) on a free music archive site. In the song, a man begs for his lover to stay. When asked, my baby boomer mother assumed I had referred to a duet, Suka Sama Suka by Rafeah Buang and Omar Suwita (1967), opening up another conversation on its possible adaptations. Interesting to see the evolution of how people express their anxieties to their counterparts. It seemed to me the song could parallel the state of anxiety that my story revolves around. 

If you’re wondering, the Malay drama in question was the first season of Jeritan Sepi, a Singaporean Malay TV drama from the early 2000s that my mom and I would sit in front of our boxy TV set for. Watching her, I could tell she felt somewhat seen. Through the drama, she let me in on how poorer Malay women and girls experience a different kind of misogyny that our middle-class counterparts don’t, and how they grapple with the concept and realities of dignity. Slowly, I began to understand the anxiety of having many eyes on you as a racial and religious minority from a lower income bracket, and how society judges you by how you raise your Malay Muslim daughters. 

Briefly mentioned in the story, I contended with my gender and sexuality. A social norm has molded us to reject lived experiences beyond the gender binary. Because I have a vulva, I’m expected to grow up and live to be a cisgender woman. And because I’m expected to grow up to be a woman, I’m also to protect my dignity from becoming a “loose woman” so that I could marry a straight Muslim man. Another social norm that has molded us to reject queerness and the knowledge that sexuality is a spectrum. 

But most of all, because we aren’t rich, our dignity is all we have. 

These social norms have validated sunat as one of the strategies to secure dignity in a world that shifts the goalpost. Growing up, these social norms impacted my self-esteem and made me feel that there was something inherently wrong with me. I don’t check these boxes. These standards of dignity don’t feel dignifying. What could dignity look like then? 

I went through the workshop thinking it was a story describing what had happened to me. It’s only dawning on me that it was a shared project with my mother (that she has no clue of). I understand the anxieties she had with raising me. In a way, this is my love letter to my mother. 

I hope that my story will leave a positive lasting impact and reach Muslim parents and survivors. To parents, I hope we’ll choose our children over harmful social norms because I want to see a future where queer, trans, and nonbinary children grow up with high self-esteem and know that someone is on their side. And if they are survivors, their parents will support them and give them space to grieve and heal. 

If you’re thinking of sharing your story, don’t worry about feeling it’s not the right or perfect story to tell. You have a creative process, and someone in the future will thank you for your courage to record an event of your time. 

Afiqa (she/they) is a nonbinary survivor of Female Genital Cutting (FGC) from the Malay Muslim community in Singapore. They volunteer with End FGC Singapore, a campaign that aims to empower Muslim communities in Singapore to end FGC. Through community re-education and community-based support for survivors and parents, Afiqa believes we will end FGC within our generation and heal from the collective trauma. Pandemic hobbies they picked up include growing their plant collection and being bad at gouache painting (but still having fun with it). 

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