We all have reasons
for moving…
What is home?
To me, home is the sweet, inviting smell of asam pedas wafting from the kitchen to fill the living room. Home is waking up to my parents talking over breakfast at the cosy kitchen table; ten pieces of prata on a plate for everyone to share. Home is a king-sized bed of comfort. Home is hanging lampu lap-lip on the eve of Eid. Home is the place I run back to after a tiring day. Home is where my heart finds peace. Home is where I never want to leave. Home is where family is.
It started with us five. Mama, Bapak, my two Abangs (older brothers) and me. Mama was the queen of our house and a stay home mom, while Bapak was a taxi driver who worked tirelessly from early morning till the tail end of evening and made sure we never once felt any ounce of hardship. My first home was a maisonette, just a few blocks away from our five-room HDB flat. My brothers and I played football in our living room (much to Mama’s disapproval), played hide and seek, raced against each other, played floor is lava, sepak takraw, chapteh, and more. My favourite was playing pirates on a treasure hunt, climbing on the plush, red sofas, stumbling on Mama’s cushions, marching up and down the stairs singing with much gusto like the mighty pirates we were. Because I was the youngest, I naturally took up the follower role and my eldest, the leader. He’d bring us to every corner of the house, giving instructions as we all played pretend and crooned our very own sea shanty. I felt like a real pirate, searching high and low for the treasure through the clues my brother had written in torn and crumpled pieces of lined paper, even if the “treasure” turned out to be underwhelming and abysmal (a country flag eraser, for example). At that age when technology was still not in our dictionary, it was an exhilarating find.
I remember my old house fondly because of the convenience of a library right below. Right after my evening shower, I would run down a flight of stairs in my pyjamas with my library card in hand, bury my head in the collection of Berenstein Bears or Mr Men and Little Miss series, borrow a pile, and run back home to devour my newly acquired books. In the 90s, these community children’s libraries were commonly found at void decks in various estates around Singapore. Now, these spaces are turned into childcare centres. The wet market which Mama and I would visit daily was also just a traffic light crossing away. The neighbourhood park, a stone’s throw away. Our neighbours were friendly and welcoming. My childhood was idyllic because home was, too.
When I turned 6, home was a 5-room HDB flat somewhere in the North. Our parents decided to bring us on our very first umrah trip with the money we got from selling our house. We lived modestly. We were neither wealthy nor poor. We had just enough. We were comfortable and content. Mama used to say as long as we attain rizq in a halal way, spend it for good and with the intention to please our God, Allah SWT, we would receive barakah. I was too young to understand what barakah really means. But I see and feel it now. Our house was a barakah-abundant home because my parents had furnished our abode with constant remembrance of Him. I would wake up every morning to Mama and Bapak praying subuh; Mama would stay on her prayer mat a little longer to recite salawat till the sun rises, while Bapak would either listen to some Islamic lectures on the cassette tapes he used to have or read his Qur’an on his desk. Young me would fall back asleep after a sleepy fajr prayer to the sound of zikr, feeling safe, snug, and loved. We would end the day praying Maghrib and Isha’ together, and Mama used to read me to sleep every night till I was old enough to read on my own. It was a routine I grew to love.
I had always thought my parents never fought with each other. But now that I am married, I realise that any disagreement or unhappiness my parents had with each other, they never showed us. They only had praises for each other. I often heard them laughing over ‘Bapak jokes’ and stories Bapak would tell Mama. The slightest sign of disagreement I had ever noticed was Mama not talking to Bapak for a few hours and refusing to answer his questions. I feel her.
Sometime in May this year, we went down to complete the selling of our family home and buying of a new home. It was simultaneously the end of a chapter, and a beginning of a new story. For me, I had felt a strange sense of nostalgia and an almost sudden wave of tears slish-sloshing, fighting to burst out of my eyes, though I barricaded them through sheer practice in restraining any public emotional display. I would always try to fight these tears I’d grown to believe isn’t socially acceptable or is socially concerning. Wouldn’t it be so silly to have salty tears running down my cheeks and falling onto the important documents as I signed them away? Being a highly emotional person who often finds herself wandering down the hallways of nostalgia, what went through my mind as I signed away these documents was how this property had once originally belonged to both my parents. It’s probably the last physical thing they had both shared together. Although I had to, under necessary conditions, be part of it, this moment had felt like an official end of a whole family history, and a start of something new. Within this unassuming house which my parents had worked so hard to build a home, stood walls which bore witness to many life-changing milestones – the growing up phases of our childhood to adolescence to adulthood, the cheer and merriment during my eldest brother’s wedding, the laughter of my nieces and nephews, smiles as we entered and graduated university, tears as mama was diagnosed with a terminal illness, the joy of many, many eids, the grief that hangs heavy like a cloud with the passing on of beloved mama, my husband moving in, and finally the smiles and tears at the arrival of my dearest child… it’d feel like this house had seen a whole circle of life, and more. As the outer physical landscapes alter and our inner familial landscapes transit through different seasons, it is time we move. I know a fraction of me is left in every life-changing event and I see myself changing, desiring to start anew. I feel a sense of obligation to move, to restart, to feel whole. Moving forward does not necessarily mean running away from something undesirable. Sometimes, moving forward means a chance to live your life and start something new so that we can recreate memories with our own family, just as how our parents had done for us.
Thirty minutes later, after all of us had given our due consent, my heart silently heaved a sigh of relief and I uttered an alhamdulillah for a smooth transaction. It had been a long process, and would continue to be one before we would finally settle down in our new abode. We took photographs to mark the day whilst Bapak, amused by our millennial antics, helped to snap our shots. I told him to take a picture too because I did not want him to feel left behind but he vehemently refused. Like any other milestone event, I had wished Mama was still around to witness. Then again, if she were still around, this probably would not have to happen. Or perhaps it would, but Bapak would certainly be less lonely, and they would have been able to hereon live comfortably, travel the world, and spend the rest of their retiree lives together. Just like how Mama had once dreamt of. But Alhamdulillah ala kulli hal, there is always a reason behind everything He had decreed for us. He knows best. Perhaps through this way, we would be humbled and be reminded that home in this Dunya can only bring temporary shelter and temporary joy. Perhaps, this is His way of encouraging us to strive for Home where mama is waiting, with its everlasting contentment – Home where we are all finally reunited. Where our family photos will once again be complete. Where no one feels left behind. And where we cry only tears of laughter.
Soon, the day for our big move arrived. The night before, I came home to an empty house. I still remember the overwhelm of emotions that washed over me. Whilst in the throes of hauling and packing our things – uprooting a 5-room HDB flat is no easy feat – I paused and took a rest, back against the kitchen cabinet. I looked at the largely bare living room and almost in an ordinary instant, I could feel my heart in my throat, and my eyes fighting tears. This is the kitchen where the 7-year old me observed Mama cutting dried chillies and onions and standing in dripping sweat for hours by the stove while she waits for the daging rendang to cook. This is my bedroom and study, now a playroom for my son; the place I had found respite in after every exhausting day of school and work, the place that had seen me read and write and dream in, the place I stayed up till the wee hours of morning to feed my son and soothe his cries. This is the dining area where Bapak would teach his students, young and old, day and night. This is my parents’ room where I witnessed Mama taking her final breath and the first time I saw tears falling from Bapak’s eyes. This is the living room where Mama and Bapak would teach me, where we used to sit as a whole family on Thursday nights to listen to Bapak sharing some advice and read Surah Yasin together, where Mama and I would hug till we cry after every Eid prayer together, where we take family photos in our baju kurung every year, where I got engaged in the presence of my loved ones, where friends and family fill to the brim as we grieved for the loss of the brightest light in our lives, where our Ustaz had shaved our newborn son’s head as he recited a poignant prayer, where we witnessed my son’s first steps. This is the balcony that saw us bid goodbyes and greet our guests into our home. This is the humble abode my parents had worked so hard to build a home. This is the home that saw me grow.
This, is home.
As I reminisce the memories we carved as a family within these walls, I learn that it’s not about the place, but the memories made. I have lived here for most of my life. With this loss of a place that had held countless of unforgettable memories for me, I am also embracing the place I have found with the small family Allah swt has gifted me to keep me whole and make more memories in our new home. It’s about time we move.
Thank you Allah for the temporary shelter you have given me and my family. May our homes always be suffused with barakah, wherever home is.
As we finally packed every last item in our house and loaded it in the van, I ran back up to take a final look and bid my farewell. The house looked just as it was, 26 years ago , when we just moved in.
A blank slate after a lifetime of memories.
I closed our door for one last time.
…I move
Mark Strand
to keep things whole.
The Book Jacket 