“Look at you,” Aunty Mary beamed as soon as she saw them enter. “You look so pretty. That red dress suits you perfectly!”
Everyone was already gathered — Uncle Freddie, Lionel — all waiting for the two of them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Aunty, Uncle,” Nonie said, slightly breathless. “I left the ward a little late. We had a last-minute emergency.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Uncle Freddie smiled. “You’re here now — come, sit down. We can start. You don’t have to worry about the food,” he added, lowering his voice slightly. “Everything is halal. No pork. We even used new utensils.”
“Oh…” she blinked, caught off guard. “All catered from the Chinese Muslim restaurant at Serangoon Road,” Aunty Mary said proudly. “Even the pots and serving dishes are theirs.”
Nonie paused. They had gone to such lengths. For her. “Yah lah,” Lionel said, smirking. “Because of Poh Poh, we’ve all gone pork-free. He said if we cook pork at home, he won't eat.”
She turned toward Poh Poh. He grinned — neither shy nor boastful — just quietly pleased.
“Doesn’t matter lah,” Uncle Freddie said, standing with the first dish in his hand. “Pork or no pork — the important thing is, we’re all here tonight.” He looked around at each of them, eyes soft.
“It’s reunion dinner. May the coming year bring us joy, good health, and happiness.” There was a quiet murmur of agreement. “Let’s each give thanks in our own way,” he added. And so they did — each one bowing their head briefly, faith unspoken but present.
As the food was passed around, Nonie took it all in — the laughter, the warmth, the familiarity. This was her first Chinese reunion dinner. She had always heard how sacred it was — this meal that pulled families back together, like a thread through time. And now, she was part of it. She wasn’t just included — she was honoured. She smiled and reached for her chopsticks.
“Let’s eat.”
Just a few days ago, in the hospital canteen— “Mei Lan, why are you sitting there alone?” Nonie called out when she spotted her colleague at the next table, eating quietly. Mei Lan looked up, hesitated.
“Er… okay for me to join?”
“Of course. Why not?”
“I’m eating pork rice,” she said softly, her eyes flicking down to her tray. Nonie blinked.
“So?”
“I mean… I didn’t want to offend anyone. I thought maybe… it’s not appropriate.” Before Nonie could reply, Marina, one of the other Malay A/Ns — lively, blunt, and always ready with a comeback — piped up: “Mei Lan, the pork’s not going to leap into our plates, lah. Come sit! Don’t be ridiculous.”
The girls around the table laughed.
“Really?” Mei Lan asked, surprised.
“Of course,” said Nonie. “You’re eating it, not us. Sit, eat, and don’t worry.”
“Back in Malaysia, we can’t even sit at the same table,” Mei Lan confessed as she moved over. “Even if it’s just curry with a bit of pork, the whole table would avoid it.”
“Well, this is Singapore,” Marina grinned. “We know how to differentiate food from friendship.” Another Malay nurse, Shidah, nodded.
“It’s true. Most of us grew up with Chinese neighbours anyway. We just learn how to live together.”
Mei Lan looked genuinely touched. “You girls… you’re different. I mean that in a good way.”
“We get that a lot,” Marina said with a wink. “Welcome to the table of The Other Malays.”
“Pork is a dirty animal… they eat filth, even their own shit. That is why we are forbidden to eat them.” The voice of the ustazah echoed in her head.
Nonie raised her hand. “So, ustazah, what about the wild boar? They’re classified as pigs too, right? But they eat only plants and roots… they’re vegetarians. Are they haram also?”
The ustazah looked at her. No response. “Okay, maybe back in the old days pigs were dirty, kept in filthy conditions… but what if things changed? What if pigs today are raised in sterile, hygienic farms and fed only the cleanest food? Would they still be haram?”
Still silence. Nonie wasn’t done. “I also read somewhere that pork is forbidden because its flesh tastes very similar to human flesh. Is that true?”
The ustazah blinked. Her lips twitched. But no words came out. In all her years of training, she had never been prepared for a child like this. You were taught. You followed. You did not question.
“Ustazah… is it true that in extreme situations, if there's no food at all, and only pork is available… it's okay to eat it?” Silence again.
She looked around at the other kids. They were staring at her like she had grown horns. One whispered: “Why do you ask so many questions about pigs?” Another muttered: “She reads too much.”
Even her ustazah said it once, gently but clearly: “You read too much, child.” But she couldn't stop wondering. Back in the kampong, she would sometimes stand quietly outside the pig farms, watching them from a distance—not too close, but close enough.
They were smelly. Dirty. Slumped in mud. And yet… fascinating. She studied them. Their slow movements. The way they slept. The way they ate. They looked lazy, yes. But not evil. She liked Porky Pig. He was funny. Endearing. How could you not like Porky Pig?
“We are taught to be kind to all animals,” the ustazah once said. And that puzzled her even more. “So… kindness for cats, but disgust for pigs? Cats can carry diseases too, you know—especially in their fur. But we kiss them. We stroke them. Why not pigs?”
She remembered asking that. Her teacher had blinked, stunned. So had her classmates. “I read somewhere that pigs are highly intelligent animals… like dolphins. Like whales.” The questions never stopped.
She had once stood quietly outside the pig farm, watching the animals snort and roll in their filth. Everyone said pigs were dirty, that they were haram, cursed, unclean. But as she watched them sleep, nuzzle each other, blink their heavy eyes—she found herself wondering: Why would God create an animal just to be hated?
And then, like a spark in the back of her mind: Why would God create people to be hated too? There are humans—born into the wrong skin, wrong belief, wrong desire—who seem destined to be targets. Beaten down. Silenced. Killed. As if their whole existence was meant to serve as a lightning rod for other people’s rage. Could it be? Did God create some simply to be hated? Was that the purpose of their lives? That thought haunted her. It terrified her. But it never left.
“S/N Mary, you still have a lot of dressings to do? It’s almost break time.” Nonie asked as the Chinese staff nurse rolled her dressing trolley out of the patient room.
“Ya lah… I don’t think I can finish in time.” Mary sighed, glancing at the stack of unopened dressing packs.
“I’m going out with the girls. Let me buy your lunch, okay? What do you want?”
“No, no, it’s okay—you don’t have to,” Mary replied, surprised.
“Come on lah, I’m already taking orders for a few others. Might as well include yours. So? What’ll it be?”
“…Mee pork,” Mary said hesitantly. “You sure it’s okay?”
“Mee pork for you. Same shop you always order from, right?”
“Yes…” Mary paused, looking at her—just a second too long. There was something in her expression. Not judgement. Not concern.
Just… wonder. A Muslim girl buying mee pork without blinking. Nonie just smiled, already turning to join the others.
Somewhere in her mind, the memories resurfaced again…
“She’s a traitor!” one of the boys from Kampung Dalam had shouted. “I saw her walking with a Chinese boy!”
“We went to the library,” she shouted back. “What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s still Chinese. He’ll ask—and you’ll tell.”
“No, I didn’t. He never asked. He’s not like the other Chinese boys. He’s different.”
“How different can he be?”
“He doesn’t eat pork.”
“All Chinese eat pork! How can he be Chinese and not eat pork?”
“It’s true. If you don’t believe me, ask him. Or his cousin. He’s the only one in the family who doesn’t.”
She turned now and looked at him, seated beside Lionel, laughing at something quietly. “All this time… why didn’t I see it,” she thought.
“You seem quiet,” Aunty Mary’s voice brought her back. “How’s the food? I hope you like Chinese food.”
“I’m alright, Aunty. The food’s really delicious.”
“You okay?” He leaned closer, his voice soft against her left ear.
“I am,” she said. “Just… overwhelmed, that’s all.” Under the table, his hand reached for hers. A gentle squeeze. Their eyes met. And for that brief moment, everything else fell away.
They were walking slowly back toward her flat, their footsteps light against the quiet of the night.
“When will you be going to the Science Centre again?” he asked, casually. She hesitated, staring up at the faint stars above them.
“I’m not sure I want to go there anymore.”
He stopped. “Why the sudden change? Something happen?”
She gave a soft laugh. “All this time, I’ve been so obsessed with the universe—so passionate about what lies up there,” she pointed skyward, “thinking maybe the answers I’ve been searching for are written in the stars… but now I realise—” She paused.
“Realise what?”
“That maybe the real answer was right in front of me all along… and I never saw it. Because I was too busy looking up.”
He looked at her, quietly. Then gently said, “Let’s sit for a bit. I have something for you. A small gift—to start the new year.” They sat on the stone bench beneath the tree just outside her block.
He took out a parcel wrapped in red floral paper and handed it to her. She unwrapped it slowly.
“A red shawl…” Her smile faltered, memory taking over as she narrating it verbally.
“Oh no… my shawl…” she whispered to herself, almost laughing. “I remember now. I lost one just like this years ago. I know my mother will be furious. That was the sixth one I’d misplaced. I was supposed to wear it from home to the surau and back. Never to take it off. And I lost it…” She chuckled, shaking her head.
“I wanted to say the Chinese boys were chasing me—but I knew if I said that, she’d ask why they were chasing me… and I didn’t want to answer that.”
He was smiling now. “And then,” she continued softly, “you came out of nowhere… holding my shawl… ‘Is this yours?’ you said.”
He leaned in, his voice gentler than before. “You mean a lot more… to me… than just a lost shawl.”
She traced the edge of the fabric with her fingers. It was soft. Clean. It smelled faintly of lavender.
“Can I put it on now?” she asked. “If you want to.” She looked at him again.
“No. Why don’t you put it on me?” He took the shawl from her hands, stood, and gently placed it around her head, adjusting it the way one might crown someone with a memory.
“You look beautiful in the shawl,” he said. A moment passed. “Thank you for coming,” he added, voice nearly breaking. “It meant a lot. You’re the first person I’ve ever invited to our reunion dinner.”
She smiled up at him. “No. I should be the one thanking you… Sulaiman Keng Hock Poh.”
His eyes widened. “You knew?”
She smile “yes, I knew.”
Chapter 33 / 36
