I grew up surrounded by enthralling stories, but I remember sitting through many film events in Singapore and not seeing a single film about my people, my community, our achievements or our struggles. I watched many great films of international acclaim, yet none of them “spoke” my language as a Singaporean Malay. This was sometime in the late 1990s and early 2000s.
The indigenous Singaporean Malay seemed like an entity no one knew about. I felt disconnected from the worlds being constructed on screen. The films largely spoke to the dominant demographic in attendance: the Singaporean Chinese. Amid films from Taiwan, Hong Kong and China, there were already a handful made by local Singaporean Chinese filmmakers. There was at least some representation of Singaporeans of Chinese heritage.
In a country where Singaporean Chinese make up about 75 per cent of the population, Singaporean Malays 15 per cent and Singaporean Indians 7 per cent, such viewing demographics and the dominance of Chinese-language films were perhaps to be expected.
There were also films from Malaysia and Indonesia, in Bahasa Melayu and Bahasa Indonesia respectively. However, the fantastical, insular stories about kampung life, rural heartlanders or those adapting at the peripheries of large cities, which regularly featured in films from Malaysia and Indonesia at festivals, did not fully speak to me either.
The last Malay-language films made in Singapore had ended in the late 1960s, around the time Singapore separated from the Federation of Malaysia. After independence, the local lingua franca gradually shifted from Malay to English. Cinema habits changed too, with demand largely driven by Hollywood and Bollywood, and occasionally films from Hong Kong. Singapore, led by Lee Kuan Yew, its first Prime Minister, focused more on the practical demands of nation-building and economic reconstruction. The arts were sidelined.
Sitting in the cinema then, something was triggered at the back of my mind. It was not about the foreign films I was watching. It was about the relevance of my Malay voice, and where that voice situated itself within contemporary Singapore cinema. It was also about how I would tell the world about Singapore and Singaporeans.
A city-state cannot proudly and authentically claim to be multicultural when its media presents only one dominant ethnic facet as the country’s reality. Simply showcasing all four official languages and their respective ethnicities in a single programme is not necessarily reflective of multiculturalism. Having one token local Malay in a predominantly Chinese programme is not representation. Put bluntly, it is insulting window dressing.
In 2005, I wrote, produced and directed my first independent film, LOST SOLE. Beyond being Singapore’s first Malay-language film since independence, I pushed further by writing some of the dialogue in the Baweanese language. This was my way of paying tribute to my Baweanese heritage and to my grandparents, who came from Bawean Island in Java, Indonesia. It was also my way of pointing a finger at the four nationally sanctioned official languages represented in state-run media.
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| A still from LOST SOLE (2006) |
LOST SOLE is about an elderly Malay man who loses his slippers at a mosque after Friday congregational prayers. More importantly, it was dedicated to my late father, who once walked barefoot for two kilometres after losing his slippers at the mosque one Friday.
The film travelled to more than 30+ film festivals and was subsequently showcased at the Museum of Modern Art in New York. At these festivals, I often had to explain to international audiences that Singaporean Malays existed. Many were only familiar with Malays from Malaysia and with Bahasa Indonesia through Indonesian cinema. I was simply happy that the Singaporean Malay was finally being seen internationally. It was also post 9-11, a period when audiences around the world was trying to find meaning in Islam and the Muslim in other parts of the world other than America and the Middle East.
After LOST SOLE, I made two other independent short films, À LA FOLIE in 2008 and AMEEN in 2010. Both centred on Singaporean Malays and explored the ironies and conflicts between “Malayness” and Islamic spirituality.
I was subsequently beyond excited to make my first feature film, SAYANG DISAYANG, which I wrote, produced and directed in 2013. After the success of the three short films on the international festival circuit, and after presenting a more nuanced and multicultural Singapore, I believed SAYANG DISAYANG would have access to state funding.
That was not to be the case.
The film was eventually made independently after failing to receive state funding, following two long years of flip-flopping between agencies.
SAYANG DISAYANG tells the story of a caregiver who becomes desperate to recreate the sambal goreng recipe made by the late wife of her lonely and testy wheelchair-bound Singaporean employer, in the hope of breaking down the emotional barriers between them.
The film was awarded Best Asian Film, the Jury’s Prize, at the Salamindanaw Asian Film Festival. Rather ironically, it later became Singapore’s official submission for the 2015 Academy Awards in the Foreign Language Film category.
From these experiences, I took it upon myself to ensure that Singaporean Malay voices are heard.
It sometimes feels that if I do not do it, nobody else will. Or someone else may attempt to hijack these stories and tell them disrespectfully. Whenever I am commissioned by state agencies to create public video campaigns, I deliberately incorporate Malay story elements whenever possible.
There is something empowering about seeing yourself heard and represented respectfully on screen.
Films are also incredibly important historical documents for future generations of Singaporeans. Every community needs to be assured that its voice matters, even when the demands of commercial cinema suggest otherwise.
Despite the challenges of bringing minority voices to the screen, filmmakers can inspire others by telling stories that matter to their communities. Stories that truly “speak” to communities can unite, empower and inspire them. Perhaps that has become my life’s calling as a storyteller.
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