Costumes and arson

I went to a dear friend’s birthday party last night. It was a costume party, and the dress code was Dynasty. It was glamorous and glittery, outlandish and large. Sure, there were some who stood out for the wrong reasons: I, for example, ended up looking like a cross between the Flashdance cast and The Grateful Dead.

I actually love costume parties. They combine comedy and friendship. Costumes are ready-made natural ice-breakers, and people feel comfortable engaging with strangers because everyone is bound by enjoyment, laughter and silliness.

But real life tells another story, a rather less pleasant one. When we’re not in mufti, our costumes symbolise ethnicity, creed – and, of course, religion. These are all good things. When Raya comes round, and Malay men don the baju Melayu, I feel like I am beholding a kingdom of princes. And nothing, nothing, makes feel as good as when I am wearing a saree.

However, in the small, benign gaps that distinguish us, seep in sour, corrosive attitudes. Difference can become disliked, even more so when you dare telegraph it to the world with what you wear. I feel like we (Malaysians) have learnt to apply suspicion and hostility to the way people dress. That becomes a snap judgement, which eventually becomes a blanket attitude, which in turn creates a volatile space for violence.

And so in civilian life, costumes are rather less fun than they are in parties.

That’s exactly why I am blogging on a Sunday night while nursing a stubborn hangover. I just read on The Star online that no less than 60 volunteers from six Muslim NGOs have offered their services to protect churches.

What a high that gave me – that brave men and women would make themselves vulnerable to attack precisely because they can see beyond costumes: robes, loincloths, cassocks and otherwise. Because they can grasp both humanity and divinity, and not be fazed by the conflict this sometimes creates. Because they are good people.

The arson attacks have worried me, of course. I’ve played the worst-case scenarios over and over in my mind. Fire on a Sunday morning in old church structures which were not designed with the best escape routes. Children in Sunday school. Damaged antique stained glass, pipe organs and hymnals. It would take years to restore everything, including the courage to gather as a congregation.

Somehow though – and I can’t explain why – I knew we’d be ok, so reading that story made me ever so smug. Malaysians are standing shoulder-to-shoulder, declaring peace and offering palpable help. This is who we are. This is who we should – and will – continue to be.

Prime Minister Najib, oneness begins in plurality.

God, make our hearts think right.

Read the full Star article here.