Raya Without Them

Info: “Raya” is a Malay word that means “celebration” or “festival.” It is commonly used to refer to major religious and cultural holidays in Malaysia and other Southeast Asian countries. Raya in the context of Hari Raya Aidilfitri, it refers to the celebration marking the end of Ramadan, the Islamic holy month of fasting.

“Raya Without Them”

The morning of Hari Raya Aidilfitri felt quiet—too quiet. No laughter from the kitchen, no clanging of pots, no smell of rendang simmering for hours. Just silence. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the old family photo on the wall. My father’s warm smile. My mother’s gentle gaze. They were gone now, and I was alone.

For as long as I could remember, Hari Raya had been my favorite time of the year. Our small house in the village would come alive with warmth and joy. My mother would start cooking days before—ketupat hanging from the ceiling, trays of kuih lined the table. My father, always the jokester, would tease me about how much duit raya I planned to collect. I never imagined I’d one day celebrate without them.

It had been two years since the accident. Two years since everything changed. People said time would heal, but as the takbir echoed from the nearby mosque, the pain felt just as fresh. I had no siblings, no family nearby. Just me and the empty house that used to be filled with love.

I forced myself to get up and put on my baju kurung—one my mother had sewn for me years ago. The pale blue fabric felt soft against my skin, but it didn’t feel the same without her fixing my scarf or teasing me for always being late. My hands trembled as I pinned my hijab, remembering the way she used to tuck the edges perfectly.

I walked to the kitchen, hoping to feel their presence somehow. But the silence was deafening. No scent of lemang roasting. No sound of my father’s favorite radio station playing Raya songs. Just an empty table. Still, I tried. I heated up a small bowl of rendang my neighbor had sent over, but every bite felt hollow. Without them, it was just food—no warmth, no love.

By mid-morning, the village buzzed with life. I watched from the window as children ran around in their bright outfits, laughing and playing with sparklers. Families hugged, exchanged greetings, and carried trays of food to share. I wanted to feel happy for them, but instead, an ache grew in my chest. No one would knock on my door. No one would call my name.

I tried to visit the cemetery after Zuhur prayers. The air was hot and heavy as I knelt by their graves, the grass still fresh from my last visit. “Selamat Hari Raya, Mak… Ayah…” My voice cracked. I wiped the tears that fell freely, no longer trying to hold them back. “I miss you. I miss you so much.”

I sat there for hours, lost in memories—my mother’s gentle touch as she adjusted my scarf, my father’s warm embrace after prayers. It hurt to remember, but it hurt more to forget. I wished I could hear their voices just one more time.

As the sun began to set, I forced myself to return home. The house felt colder in the evening light. I placed a framed picture of my parents on the dining table, their smiles offering me a small comfort. I knew I couldn’t bring them back, but I could keep their love alive.

I lit a small pelita outside, just like my father used to. The flame flickered softly in the breeze. It was a small gesture, but it made me feel less alone—like a piece of them was still with me.

That night, I sat by the window, watching the fireworks light up the sky. Alone, but carrying their love in my heart. I realized that even if they weren’t here physically, the memories they left behind would always be a part of me.

And in that quiet, I whispered, “Selamat Hari Raya, Mak… Ayah… I’ll always remember you.”