PERSONAL JUSTICE by Ramlee Awang Murshid

4

TELUK INTAN, PERAK, MALAYSIA

11 September - 5.00 p.m.

HAJI IMRAN displayed his agility while performing the Silat Cekak Hanafi on the lawn in front of his hiuse. While Hilman sat on the staircase observing his father's steps. Even in his old age, Haji Imran still mastered his silat. Once in a while, though, the old man did gasp for breath. This had been his daily routine every morning and evening before leaving to tend to his herb farm.

Sweat trickled all over the old man's body. Hilman could just smile. Actually, he practiced the same routine over at his house in Petaling Jaya, Selangor. The only difference was that sometimes Hilman chose to jog in the evening. 

Haji Imran, who had retired from work for the last 15 years, was now working on his herb farm. He then sold his herb products to some factories that use herbs to manufacture energy drinks, tonics and jamu.

"Do you still practice your silat moves?" Haji Imran asked. 

"Of course, father. It's in my blood," Hilman replied.

"Never forget the traditions and heritage of our nation. I went through a lot to study this silat from the late Ustaz Hanafi himself. And you're the sole descendant of this family, Iman!" Haji Imran reminded Hilman, his only child.

Hilman nodded. He appreciated his father's concern. Yet, who would he pass his silat to then? Jeslina? He could only sigh in reply.

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MAKAN cekak was a Malay proverb of Kedah origin to reflect one's willingness, ability and the responsibility to carry out a task. The art of Silat Cekak was an art of self-defense in a confrontation. The word 'cekak' itself originated from the Minangkabau language meaning 'fight'. So the art of Silat Cekak simply meant fighting silat. Yet, fighting was not the Silat Cekak's main purpose, but it was an effective method to protect oneself during a fight. Cekak also meant 'belief', that is, this silat held its own principles and purposes. To study this silat was not so that one could show his superiority, proud, invasive and boisterous. Indeed, it was to protect oneself, country and religion.

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HAJI INRAN'S words and teachings always droned in Hilman's ears. He could never forget  them all. They had become his body and blood. 

"Remeber, Iman. The blood of the Malay nation runs in our bodies," Haji Imran continued. 

Hilman nodded again. Yes! I am of Malay blood!

"Tsk! Tsk, dear! You and your silat. What, have you forgotten your farm?" suddenly Hajah Fatimah appeared in the doorway. Hilman turned and smiled at his beloved mother. 

"Actually, I wanted to silat with Iman. But he was scared, Mak Hajah!" Haji Imran joked, fleeting a look towards Hilman. He grabbed a towel that was hanging on a wood by the stairs and wiped his sweat. 

"What were you doing in the kitchen, Mak Hajah?"

" I was cooking green bean soup," Hajah Fatimah replied. 

"Did you say green bean soup, mother?" Hilman interjected.

"You know, Iman. Your mother always cooked green bean soup whenever you come home. Funny, she never does the otherwise," Haji Imran joked again. This time he glanced playfully at his wife. 

"The green bean soup is for you, Man. Hah, Bang Haji, Iman, come upstairs. Don't let the green bean soup get cold. It won't taste good when it's cold," Hajah Fatimah said.