I remember…
Doing homework at Saidatul’s house while her grandmother taught kelas mengaji for the neighbourhood kids in the living room with a slim rotan on her lap.
Sitting in during Jawi or Agama classes when there were too few students in the whole school to have a Pendidikan Moral class and as a result, being able to recite alif ba ta etc, write my name in Jawi, sing a few nasyid songs and recite the daily morning doa.
Having my primary classmates gather around and buzz excitedly to the ustazah when I recited the kalimah syahadat with ease; they were interested to know if that meant that I had converted.
The melodious strains of takbir that signaled the arrival of Syawal and Marlina’s mellifluous voice reciting the Quran in the afternoons before we turn the street into a badminton court for the evening.
Scoring full marks for History essays whenever the topic was on Tamadun Islam.
How hearing azan in Singapore was like a call to home.
I remember all this with great warmth and how it collectively form my opinion of Muslims and Islam. I remember arguing in tears with Christian friends that non-Christians do not automatically go to hell. I did not remember that being kafir meant that I would be treated as anything less than equal.
Today, I find myself remembering and asking ever so often…
Islam, where is thy beauty that I so fondly grew up with?
