The Stage Of Contested Shadows

 The Stage of Contested Shadows

M. Bakri Musa

May 17, 2026

Setting: A dimly lit veranda of a kampung home. Books—well-thumbed volumes of history, philosophy, and classical literature—are piled high on a sturdy rattan table. In the background, a kerosene-lit wick lamp shimmers quietly, casting long, shifting shadows. Two men sit across from one another: Mat Kadir (MK), young, earnest, and comfortably idealistic; and Mahatzir Bahri Mudi (MBM), older, with still sharp, discerning eyes, and the worried posture of a long bewildered distant observer.

MBM: (Leaning forward, his index finger tapping deliberately on a worn copy of Hikayat Hang Tuah) You see, Mat, the tragedy of our society is that we are all prisoners of our own lenses. We strut around convinced that we see the world with absolute clarity while completely oblivious to the fact that we are merely squinting through the thick fog of our own era, our own culture—the very air we breathe.

MK: But ‘Tok, history is history. Facts are stubborn things. Surely a fact doesn’t change depending on who is looking at it?

MBM: (Laughs softly, a dry, rumbling sound) Oh, if only life were that neatly clinical! As Shahnon Ahmad so perceptively noted in the introduction to his Seketul Hati Seorang Pemimpin (The Lump In A Leader’s Heart), history is indeed a kind teacher at heart. But—and this is the crucial caveat our people always forget—she is only a teacher if we are willing and intellectually equipped to learn from her.

Let’s look at our own backyard, Mat. Consider this enduring legend of our own Hang Tuah. A tale, as we Minang would put it,“tak lekang dek paneh, tak lapuk dek hujan”—neither scorched by sun nor rotted by rain. Now, you may take issue with my characterizing Tuah as a mere legend rather than a genuine historical figure. That is a debate for another day. But regardless of his historicity, for generations our people have been systematically force-fed this imagery of Tuah as the ultimate hero. The undisputed paragon of Malay virtue. Let us call it what it actually is: institutionalized indoctrination.

MK: Because he was the ultimate patriot, ‘Tok! “Takkan Melayu Hilang di Dunia.” (Malays will never perish in this world!) He embodied loyalty to the setting sun!

MBM: Loyalty, Mat? Or absolute mindless servility? That’s the real rub.

(MBM smooths his gray hair, his eyes narrowing as he warms up to his subject)

It took the intellectual upheaval of the 1950s and 60s—a glorious era of anti-hero sentiments and iconoclastic thinking—for someone like Kassim Ahmad to pick up that same moldy, fading text to see something entirely different. To Kassim, Tuah wasn’t a hero; he was but a palace sycophant. A man who blindly executed the Sultan’s most tyrannical whims while, if you read between the lines closely, taking a few too many libertine liberties with the palace concubines. He was a royal lapdog, a not-so-secret lecher to boot, heaped with royal rewards and honors.

MK: (Frowning, visibly uncomfortable) And Jebat? Surely you aren’t defending the traitor?

MBM: In Kassim’s eyes? Jebat was the only genuine hero in the entire saga! He was the solitary man who stood up against systemic injustices when the laws of the land degenerated into the mere whims of a despot.

(He gestures sharply to the book between them)

Look at it again! The exact same ink, the same ancient parchment. The identical words penned centuries ago. Yet, one generation sees a saint; another, a stooge. It isn’t the text that changed, Mat—it is the caliber and perceptiveness of the mind reading it.

This Hikayat is just a book, written by a flawed mortal about a sultanate that flickered for but a brief heartbeat in the grand timeline of human history. It is a deceptively simple story, but its themes are universal and enduring.

Now, think about this, young man: If a mere mortal’s tale carries that much baggage and can be interpreted so radically different, imagine a text that represents the words of Allah meant for all mankind, for all time, and till the end of time. You would have to possess a very special, highly virulent strain of arrogant ignorance to stand up on a pulpit and bark with holy certitude, “And this is what Allah meant!”

Just look at those celebrity ulama now polluting YouTube and TikTok these days. Frankly, you have to be a particular kind of moron to display that level of arrogance—and equally a moron to believe them.

MK: But ‘Tok, they are reminding us of our obligations to Him as well as to our maqasid, the higher purposes of our faith . . .

MBM: (Interrupting with a wave of his hand) Oh, please! These celebrity preachers unhesitatingly exploit the fruits and discoveries of the kafirs while denouncing their culture. Western civilization may not know a lick about our maqasid, but their products and inventions are profoundly maqasid.

(He pulls a sleek Apple smartphone from his pocket and sets it on the table)

This cell phone, for example. It enables me to converse with and see my dear grandchildren thousands of miles away across the Pacific. It helps preserves family ties—silaturrahim – the very essence or higher purpose of our faith. Those ulama didn’t invent it; they just used it to broadcast their narrow-minded fatwas.

Let me take you further afield in time, Mat. Back to when our Islamic civilization actually led the world. Ponder those early Muslims. They weren’t afraid to get their intellectual hands dirty. They asked big, dangerous, foundational questions. They debated fiercely—even over whether the Qur’an was created or eternal. They never stopped hunting for truth no matter where it led. Their legacy? An encyclopedic intellectual output that leaves us today looking like intellectual pygmies.

Yes, they disagreed vehemently. (Then after clicking a few times with both thumbs on the gadget’s tiny screen) Look here! Imam Al-Ghazzali straight out branded Ibn Sina an unbeliever! But you know what? That very friction is what characterized our Golden Age. Friction creates heat, yes, but it also produces sparks. The skill, the ultimate challenge of leadership and the ummah, lies in leveraging both.

(A wry smile touches MBM’s lips) And by the way, notice how it is always a “he” in our culture? That is a systemic blind spot we desperately need to cure.

Mat, we have to get back to that spirit of restless inquiry of yore. Do not be afraid to poke at the fundamentals, to stir the long-settled embers. My generation did at least one thing right: We challenged authority. Whether a man is a politician or a preacher, do not just nod along like a bobblehead.

Don’t be a sucker, Mat. Don’t hand your wallet—or your mind—to the first slick, snake-oil salesman who wanders into your village wearing a robe. And for heaven’s sake, don’t go adulating and chasing after every self-proclaimed Mahadi wannabe who pops up on your social media feed.

Remember Jim Jones and his poor, hapless gullible followers in the jungles of Guyana? They lined up to drink his cyanide-laced Kool-Aid simply because they had abdicated the responsibility of thinking for themselves.

Blind faith is no faith, Mat! My wise father put it far more bluntly to me when I was your age: Use your head! It might just save your neck.

MK: (Staring at the book, then at MBM, a slow, appreciative smile breaking across) That is heavy stuff, ‘Tok. Surgical, really. I think it’s time I start turning my own assumptions upside down to see what falls out.