Embracing traditions, grief, and new beginnings in a changing world
This Hari Raya, I find myself reflecting on the way grief lingers—not just in sorrowful tears but in the quiet, persistent moments, much like glutinous rice that clings to your teeth.
It’s in the echoes of past celebrations, where familiar laughter once filled the room. It’s in the old Hari Raya videos I replay, seeing the faces of those no longer here. This year, their absence feels profound, leaving a void shaped by memories.
The deepest loss? My aunt—whom I called Mak. More than family, she was my second mother, my guide, my safe place. Her presence was a constant, and now, on this day of reunion, her absence speaks louder than words.
A Raya Without Kuih Lopes
Every year, we started Hari Raya at her modest two-room flat in Tanglin Halt—a neighbourhood frozen in time, its walls whispering stories of the past. The scent of aged curtains held a comforting familiarity, one that’s hard to explain.
Mak’s festive spread was simple yet sacred. Lontong, beef rendang, sambal goreng—all made with love. But her signature dish? Kuih lopes. Sticky rice rolled in grated coconut, drenched in thick gula melaka.
This year, there’s no kuih lopes waiting for us. No bustling kitchen welcoming us home. Only the taste of memory, lingering like a scent you can’t quite place.
The Weight of Grief and the Light of Joy
But here’s what I’ve realised: grief and joy can coexist. They sit side by side, like distant relatives who nod politely at reunions.
Last October, we hosted a panel on processing grief, just days after Mak passed. From that, I learned grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet, settling into the spaces left behind. It doesn’t seek to overshadow celebrations—it simply reminds us of what matters.
This Hari Raya is also significant for another reason: it’s our first in our new home, and the first with our youngest son. At 11 months old, he’s just old enough to don a tiny baju kurung and be mesmerised by the twinkling lights from Geylang Serai.
Dressing both boys felt like a battle against wriggling octopuses. Singing Raya songs off-key in the car, my wife and I exchanged knowing glances—realising it’s our turn now. The roles we once saw our parents play have shifted to us.
The fridge now holds checklists. Spring cleaning is outsourced, but the daily mess of toys remains a war zone. Between perfecting festive dishes and wrestling with tiny outfits, we give our best—not just for today, but for the legacy we hope to pass on.
Holding Onto What Matters
As millennials, we often drift from traditions. We’re busy. We prioritise convenience. Sitting for hours over rendang or teaching younger ones to weave ketupat feels optional—until, suddenly, it doesn’t.
With time, we see traditions differently. It’s not about recreating perfection. It’s about honouring those before us, even in our imperfect attempts. In that, there’s a quiet kind of joy—the kind that settles in while wiping the floor after a toddler’s misadventure, mirroring the grief that lingers.
Making Room for the Past and the Future
Hari Raya is about returning home—not just physically, but emotionally. With age, we learn that reunion also carries absence. Not everyone is in this year’s family photo.
Now, as I adjust my son’s kopiah (which he refuses to keep on), I see the threads connecting past and present. The songs, the laughter, the rituals—this is how we carry them forward.
Laying out crisp traditional outfits, cueing up my “Eid Mubarak Vibes 2025” playlist, tweaking the ketupat lights for the tenth time—I realise Hari Raya is about making space.
Space to honour what was and embrace what is. To celebrate, even while grieving. To say their names aloud, without hesitation. To build new memories without erasing the old ones.
There may be no kuih lopes on the table this year, but there’s remembrance. There’s joy. And, of course, there’s still gula melaka—perhaps a bit runnier than I’d like, but enough to remind me that love and legacy remain.
