The logical reader reads what he wants to read

The believer sees beyond meaning

- Mas Reno

It has been more than a month since I was in Jakarta. It's been interesting to note people's reactions to my little jaunt. From remarks saying that I wasted my time in Jakarta praying, when I could have gone shopping, to someone asking me in all sincerity, "Oh, you like Sufi poetry?" when I said that I had attended a Sufi camp (I didn't know what else to describe it), right up to acquaintances wanting to know more about the course. What was even more odd was that a few of my Malay friends, hijabed and non, sniffed at the adventure and made snide remarks while my non-Malay friends and non-practising, yes, Muslim friends were delighted with the jaunt.

Mrs. Scott, whose dogs guest-starred in a previous article, repeatedly said, "Whatever you learned there, you keep on at it because I see changes in you. Good ones."

"Next think you know I can float in the air," I laughed.

"Aiyoh, that one a bit much lah!"

My two 'older men' - Naa Murad and Paul Lau - asked whether it was a tabligh group that catered to the rich. No, Nursyifa was a place for weary souls seeking respite and healing. "Were there drums and dancing?"

"Er, no. No incense either."

"Was it in a rich neighbourhood like some of these tarikats are situated? No Tengkus and Datuks?"

"No. It's a normal house that's been turned into a centre for the destitute. And Ibu Haji has 16 cats. No rich people. Just normal folks."

"And they accept you for who you are?"

"Yah."

"Is this like Ayah Pin's cult?"

"No-lah! It's all Islamic, follows Sunnah and all, but it's not like here. Go there and experience it for yourself. They welcome everyone, Muslim or not."

Poco-poco

On Sundays, Nursyifa conducts free exercise classes and therapy for everyone at the Monas Park in Central Jakarta. The crowd is mixed: men and women of all ages and shapes, and from all walks of life. Stringy young Indonesian boys rub their eyes sleepily as they shuffle into the line, while excited matrons in jeans and leggings and tee shirts squeal as they await Mas Reno to take his place on a podium, to lead the group. Within seconds, Billy Ray Cyrus bellows from the portable speakers,

You can tell your ma I moved to Arkansas

Or you can tell your dog to bite my leg

Or tell your brother Cliff who's fist can tell my lips

He never really liked me anyway

Oh tell your Aunt Louise, tell anything you please

Myself already knows that I'm okay

Oh you can tell my eyes to watch out for my mind

It might be walking out on me today

But don't tell my heart, my achy breaky heart

I just don't think it'd understand

And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart

He might blow up and kill this man

Ooo

It's poco-poco time! The women shriek, and the men whoop. For the uninitiated, feet trip over each other while necks strain to catch sight of Mas Reno showing off the moves. Some dance barefooted while some move to their own beat.

Mas Reno and his band of instructors tell the crowd to wiggle their behinds,

" Depan, depan, mundur, mundur, kwee kwee kwee !"

We giggle and wiggle, kwee kwee kwee .

"Mbak (Miss), where are you from?" A young woman next to me asks.

"Kuala Lumpur!" Kwee kwee kwee.

"Oh! Is it true Malaysians are all rich?" She shouts over Achy Breaky Heart.

That's another thing. All the Indonesians I meet at Nursyifa are curious; they hope to come visit or work in Malaysia one day, because they hear so many good things about the country. Like Dick Whittington who walked all the way to London because he heard the streets were paved with gold, everyone seems to have a starry eyed idea of Malaysia.

"Well I'm not!" I yell back.

"Oh! Is it because you have too many Chinese there?"

And that stops me in my tracks. A seven o'clock aerobics session coupled with a discussion on race and economics is just damned weird. Besides, I wanted to kwee kwee kwee again.

"Do you have this in Malaysia?" she asks again.

I laugh. Where on earth can such a session be conducted? The Taman Tun park is overrun by families, professionals; the last time I went there, I could hardly breathe, there were that many people. KLCC? We'd be arrested for public disorder. Heck you can't even hold hands there, and with this butt wiggling thing going on... Lake Gardens? It's too near JAKIM. We'd all end up under ISA for religious deviation. What normal, rational ustaz would teach a mixed group to kwee kwee kwee ?

I know this is cynical of me, but who in Malaysia will do this for free? Nursyifa provided drinks and generous snacks to all at the park grati s. There isn't any public fanfair - in KL, we'd probably have to have a VVIP to lead the congregation. And every Sunday morning?

I don't think so.

I ask one of the volunteers why such sessions are held, as I taste a panada, a curry-puff like snack.

"This is sedekah , our contribution to society. It's healthy and fun. And not all that come participate can afford snacks and drinks. It's not much, but it'll do."

A new life

There is one morning when I wake up with the oddest sensation in my chest.

I jump out of bed, befuddled, clutching at my nightshirt, and in my dazed state - it is 3 in the morning - I look for my heart. It takes me a few seconds to realise that I don't have a hole in my chest; my heart is inside me, I am not dead.

What a vivid dream, I say, as I sit on my bed, wide awake now.

Yet I feel this hollowness, and I paw at my shirt a few times. Then I remember someone telling me once, that when such a thing happens, it means that a new life begins and one is to fill his or her heart with goodness.

'It is up to you to fill that space that has been cleared. This is rebirth.'

I go back to sleep, but with the night-lamp switched on.

***

But back to everyone's Holy Grail to wealth in Malaysia.

I meet a couple with a child that has Down's Syndrome in Nursyifa. They ask where I am from, and I tell them.

The husband comes forward, and the wife looks panicked, hopeful, and he asks,

"How much can I earn as a labourer there?"

I am stunned.

"My son is ill, and I need money to help him. My wife can't work because she has to care for him. Please, can you tell how to find a job in Malaysia? I'll do anything."

"You will have to go through an agency..."

The wife asks, "Is it true everyone is rich there? That Indonesians that go to work there have better lives?"

I am silent. I do not know how to say that what you see and hear may not be the truth. That it will be tough for them. It's not even easy for many Malaysians to eke a living. But I am saved from saying the wrong thing, for it is their turn to receive therapy.

It is my last day at Nursyifa. To mark the end of my observation and participation, a small gathering is organised. Over forty orphans have been invited to pray for my well-being. Small packets of rice have been gathered to give each one of them. Ibu Haji asks me to go up to their lecture-cum-family room to meet with them.

Forty-four orphans and their ustaz look at me. Some of the younger ones smile shyly, while a few of the older ones look bored. They probably have had to recite prayers for other people many times, I figure. I smile back. And then the choir begins: the children begin reciting prayers, and in between prayers the Ustaz asks them to pray for my health, career and of all things, my jodoh . I look at Ibu Haji and she smiles impishly.

I have met many orphans before, but this group of fresh-faced children - the sight of them tugs my heart. I look at their clothes, which are yellow from too much sun and wear-and-tear. They are clean, but the signs of age and use glare at me. Some of their scarves are too big for their heads and some of the boys wear trousers that are too tight. I think of my nephew that has never wanted for anything, and again my heart is gutted.

I am told that on Nursyifa 's website there is video streaming, and if I want to follow their zikir sessions, I can click on the link and be part of the group, from the comfort of home. They also have monthly weekend retreats filled with activities such as volleyball, picnics, poco-poco as well as therapy sessions. There's even an outward bound type like retreat for those that have the hearts of lions.

A former prostitute waltzes past me, as she flirts with a young man. The woman next to me whispers, "She better tell him she has 'Hi' Vee."

"'Hi' Vee?" Is he her boyfriend?

"Bukan mbak... AIDs! 'Hi' Vee!"

I look at the young girl who has her victim enthralled by her charms. She has lost whatever beauty she has, if she ever had any, and her skinny arms flit as she talks to him. She glances over and our eyes meet. A slight sneer crosses her face, and she turns away, takes her admirer's hand and they leave Nursyifa, he besotted by her and she haughty, I know what you're thinking.

I will not meet any of the people I befriended when I leave, and my heart is heavy. The last nine days were filled with prayers and stories; we had bonded. To leave this sanctuary - why is it that I always feel more at home abroad?

***

I am back.

The few that have asked me about my trip shake their heads when they say that such a thing will have difficulty in materialising (in Malaysia). "It'll either be an elitist activity or some of the Malays will dilute the teachings with nonsense. If they're really sincere in acquiring the knowledge, let them fly to Jakarta. No, no, much as such a thing will be great in Malaysia, hancur nanti programme (it won't work)."

In the past one month, kahwin misyar, kongsi raya , to name a few, have blighted the public's perception of the religion. So many things to do, so many things to write. I wonder why people have to make things so difficult for others, for everyone else. One might as well create a new country then.

I don't know what the future holds, but I know this for sure: six more months of this (column), and then it'll be another and new adventure for me.

Glossary:

"Depan, depan, mundur, mundur, kwee kwee kwee!" - Front, front, back, back, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle

Jodoh - romantic life; partner

DINA ZAMAN lives with her family in Kuala Lumpur.