by Dr Rahim Said
When I was a child growing up in Alor Setar, Hari Raya was the most magical time of the year.
The excitement would start long before Syawal, as we cleaned the house, put up “pelita” (oil lamps), and helped our mothers prepare Raya “kuih” and cookies.
The whole “kampung” would come alive with the smell of freshly baked “kuih kapit”, “kuih buaulu”, the laughter of children playing “bunga api”, and the sound of Raya songs crackling from our old Philips radio.
Now, living in Kuala Lumpur, having travelled the world and back, Raya still brings me home — not just physically, but in spirit.
No matter how modern life gets, nothing compares to the simple joy of “balik kampung”.
The long drive up north, the pit stops for “lemang” by the roadside, and the familiar sight of my childhood home standing proud amidst the endless paddy fields — it all feels like stepping back in time.
In those days, Raya morning meant waking up early, donning our best baju Melayu, and heading to the mosque with my father.
The air would be crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth and the distant call of the “azan”.
After prayers, we’d go from house to house, greeting neighbours with “maaf zahir dan batin”, collecting “duit raya” from generous uncles and aunties, and stuffing ourselves with “ketupat”, “rendang”, and “nasi tomato”.
But beyond the food and the festivities, Raya was about family. It was about sitting around the old wooden table, listening to stories from my grandparents, and watching my parents reconnect with relatives they hadn’t seen lately.
It was about forgiveness, about making amends, about realising that no matter how far life takes you, home will always be the people who raised you, the memories that shaped you, and the traditions that remind you where you come from.
These days, Raya in KL is different — fancier, perhaps, with mall decorations and lavish open houses. Living in condos doesn’t give you that same “kampung” atmosphere. There’s no community. There’s no smell of “buaulu” being baked or sight of kids playing “bunga api”. Not even the sound of Saloma singing Selamat Hari Raya in the air! It’s just relatively quiet.
But every year, as I make my way back to Alor Setar, I am reminded that the real magic of Hari Raya is not in the grand celebrations, but in the quiet, familiar moments: the laughter of loved ones, the warmth of an old family home, and the comforting taste of rendang made just the way my mother used to.
Selamat Hari Raya, Maaf Zahir dan Batin.
WE