The rich, the damned, the holy
Once in a very rare while, yours truly attends smart dinners and parties hosted by very wealthy relatives and friends. When you put your mind to it, you can be that social butterfly.
The pre-requisites, if you don’t have money: you better be beautiful. If you’re dirt ugly, you better be witty. Clever too, but not too clever, yah, we don’t want to outshine anyone else in their Pradas and Marc Jacobs. It’s all part of the game, and really, social Malaysia is practically Additional Maths, what with its sub-sets and inner circles.
Let’s not even bother with the nouveaus. They’re so passé and gaudy. Oh you really don’t even want to go there. They hit it lucky with one tender and are chummy with a few A-list Ministers, and they think they’re It. No wonder they marry artistes and kampung girls made good for second wives.
We’re not going to even touch royalties. Been there, done that.
Besides, the true bluebloods are the tycoons and their offspring. They look good, aren’t overweight and are educated. These boys and girls aren’t stupid. You know these types: trust fund babies that get Swiss bank accounts at the age of 15.
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At one dinner I was dragged to, (and believe that I was nowhere as sociable or fashionable as I should have been, given the illustrious company I kept with for the night. I was a last-minute date), the talk revolved around a gentleman’s Umrah (minor pilgrimage) trip. The male scions of dynasties nodded, sipped their drinks and sank back into their chairs, while the women clapped their hands and begged, oh do. Do tell us about your trip.
He had been to Mecca three times already, and each time he was even more inspired by the arduous journey The Prophet Mohammad (pbuh) had taken centuries ago. How humbled he was, knowing The Good Man only had his feet and a camel as transportation, whereas he flew.
“But I’ll tell you this. After 10 days of holiness, it was damned good to be back on MAS. I just kept thinking of the bottle I left at Passion. Hey, a glass of wine after all is permissible, kan?” he laughed.
Umrah the jet set way
After much laughter, the conversation veered towards a young socialite’s first Umrah trip, which cost her RM15,000.
My RM3,000 Umrah trip paled in comparison.
While they travelled by first class, and went shopping in between prayers in Jeddah, my family and I were shaken, rattled and rolled in a bus that had herded just too many pilgrims. Instead of shopping, my grandmother, the Patron Saint of Beggars (Mecca was a mecca of syndicated African beggars), donated freely to every luckless soul while my mother and I carried her stash of nonsense. I still remember that kick I received on my right shin when I refused to entertain a young beggar.
Once an enterprising friend of ours tried to sell my sisters and me RM300 to RM1,500 telekungs (prayer veils). Some of them had pearls sewn to them. We smiled and said no thank you, we had enough telekungs to last into the 50th century. In the privacy of our homes however, we shook our heads.
“Hell no, I’m not spending that kind of money on a telekung. I can go to Bali with that kind of money. Air Asia’s having a good promo now you know?” my sister said.
And so it has come this: it’s no longer the who’s who that you know in KL and what handbag you own, it’s which kelas mengaji (religious classes) you go to that gives you the social cachet in this town.
You won’t find male strippers at this party
You have the usrahs (religious study group). Then you have the intellectual dinners whereby the educated and professionals gather, to meet and talk with distinguished thinkers. I’ll tell you where the fun is: the kelas mengaji, for women.
Presiding over these religious classes which bear more similarity to a slumber party with girlfriends is the venerable Guru: Dr Fatma Al-Zaharah still reigns. At one point there were two huge groups pitting against each other: those that thronged YB Datuk Dr Masitah Ibrahim’s classes, one of them at the Damansara Heights mosque, or the bejewelled groupies that flocked to listen to the strict but endearing Dr Fatma’s classes, which were held everywhere, including the homes of the very rich. The good YB detoured into politics, and so far no one’s KO’d Dr Fatma. Not yet.
Apart from learning about the religion, it’s like a tupperware party whereby the latest hijab fashions are sold, expensive shawls and accessories are displayed, and lunches with the girls are set.
When I was a housewife in a recent past, I used to follow my mother on her rounds of religious classes. Listened to a number of them, and to date, I still find Dr Fatma’s classes the best. It’s probably because she’s very earthy in her ways: she calls a spade a spade.
But one of the reasons why I went to these classes was not only to become a better human being, but also that it made for entertaining afternoons.
To put down these women as flighty wives of VIPs would be wrong. Almost all could recite the Quran fluently, and melodiously. They were not newcomers or returnees to the Faith. They were there to learn about their religion deeply, among friends, so they could absolve their sins. They were definitely not insipid women; by the grace of God, they would run circles around me if it came to that.
At the end of the sessions, tea would be served. The feast rivalled the buffets at the top hotels in KL. It was here that I discovered why rich women stayed thin: they just looked at their food.
One evening, after toying with an exotic dessert, one of the ladies chirped: Did you know that the rich get more plus points with God than the poor?
This was new.
The rich have more time and resources to spend in their pursuit of goodness. The poor, even if they pray five times a day, they have no time to sit and ‘berdzikir’ (recite) as they have too many worries. The rich are able to spread their wealth in the name of charity and Islam. Just look at Tan Sri Mokhtar AlBukhary’s museum!
I didn’t ask her from which verse or hadith she got that from, because I was too gob-smacked by the snobbery. With all due respect to her, in some warped way she did make sense.
Yes I’m cynical
A male friend once admonished me, saying, ‘Look, does it matter whether the telekung costs RM30 or RM1500? At the end of the day, you are being a responsible Muslim. As long as it’s clean, white and covers your aurat when you pray, that’s good enough.’
Precisely my point. As long as the telekung is clean, white and covers the necessary, why would any sane woman pay more than RM100 so she can pray?
And this has nothing to do with my meagre salary as a journalist. I just think religion sure doesn’t come cheap these days. You gotta be a freakin’ millionaire to go to heaven.
Islam has become so fashionable. Forget pretty telekungs, selendangs and overseas trips with your mengaji cronies. Among young mothers and fathers, the topics of conversation are which Muslims schools are good and international in flavour; where to buy good books on Islam for children, and which teachers are fabulous. It’s great to know that you take religious education seriously, but does it have to come with a price-tag? I know it’s silly to complain about spending on religion, but I have a budget.
At that party I attended, a very handsome gentleman was adamant that he emigrated. He was sick of the hypocrisy in Malaysia, he said. He just wanted to live in peace.
“I have an Ustaz teaching me Fardhu Ain, I go for prayers, and yet I am unable to lead my own life here. I don’t even dare step into Velvet or The Loft now, because I’m scared of Jawi. I don’t need the stress you know? And what’s wrong with drinking socially? Didn’t you know that wine was not forbidden immediately when Islam came about? Why the hell should I pay the price for some idiotic camel-humper getting wasted?”
I didn’t say anything, because we were not friends. All I thought was, it’s easy for you to leave. With a Swiss account, jet-setting friends and homes all over the world, emigrating should be a peach. The rest of us would have to search deeply within ourselves to find that courage to leave our home. We’d be lucky to find work as janitors should we find ourselves in a foreign pond.
Hijrah
As mentioned earlier, Islam in the fashionable circles in the city is splintered into many, many groups. If you’re young, you go to a certain place in a certain area to learn about Sufism. My Ustaz that teaches tajweed (Arabic grammar) classes told me to investigate another group whereby after an induction course and many rigorous dugaans (challenges), the student will be likened to a heavenly being. “Then you can report to Jawi for deviationist teachings,” he said, solemnly.
There are even religious classes that teach you silat (Malay martial art), my lawyer told me. “You have to eat glass to prove your invincibility,” Azmi said.
The truth is, there are rich and pious Muslims that have contributed greatly to society. Most of them adhere to the code of piety: humility keeps them away from the press and prying eyes. Their good works and practise are not shown for this is considered riak, arrogance. A true believer will not want his piety broadcasted to the world.
However, the number is too few. These men and women may never be known, and what great tragedy it will be to us, to not know them.
The rest, the rest content themselves as Muslims in name.
Those that wake up from their slumber, panic, and begin their spiritual journey, grabbing at whatever comes their way, so they can sleep, they can tell themselves that the little they do, will bring them slightly closer to God.
