Back in the early 1990s, I spent almost every weekend at a rural temple hidden deep within an oil palm estate in Johor Bahru. Locals called it the oil palm temple. It wasn’t grand or elaborate, but it drew people from as far as Singapore, all seeking blessings, healing, or answers from a “priest” known for entering deep trances.
Whenever the priest slipped into this altered state, devotees believed he became a vessel for the divine. They would line up patiently, waiting for their turn to “speak” to the gods through him, asking about health, finances, family, and fate. The energy was thick with incense and anticipation, and whether you believed or doubted, the atmosphere had a way of pulling you in.
But what left the deepest mark on me were the temple’s annual festivals. These three-day events were intense, and the final day was unlike anything I had ever seen.
A goat would be brought forward for sacrifice. In his trance, the priest would behead the animal in one swift motion, drink its blood, and then bathe himself in it. Meanwhile, devotees prepared a massive pot large enough to cook for a hundred people but instead of food, they filled it with beer. After the sacrifice, the blood-soaked priest would climb into the pot, immersing himself completely. Emerging drenched, he would dance in a frenzied trance as drums pounded and devotees chanted louder and louder.
He moved wildly until exhaustion overtook him, collapsing only when his body could give no more.
And the pot of beer? It wasn’t discarded. Devotees carefully collected it in bottles, believing it had medicinal properties. When I once asked someone what they did with it, they told me, “We drink it, or give it to anyone who is ill. It has power.”
I spent about five years immersed in this environment. Why did I go there? At first, it was curiosity. I came from a Muslim background, with the notion of a single God, but here was a space where multiplicity reigned a pantheon of divine representations, each with its own ritual and story. I wanted to understand.
Eventually, though, I had seen enough. One day, I simply walked away and never went back.
Lessons That Stayed
Years later, I was once asked what I learned from those five years among unorthodox practices and intense devotion. Back then, I hadn’t even come across terms like atheist, agnostic, or free thinker. I was simply seeking understanding.
What fascinated me most wasn’t the rituals themselves, but the people. The educated professionals, the business owners, the mothers and fathers all lining up for their turn to speak to “god” through the priest.
I often wondered why they needed this so badly. What drove them to submit themselves to humiliation, even physical harm? Some devotees were whipped, scolded, even beaten by the priest in trance, and yet they returned, unwavering.
I came to believe that many were simply desperate trapped in circumstances they couldn’t control, clinging to any source of hope, guidance, or meaning.
I saw how easily people could be manipulated, financially and emotionally, when they believed salvation was within reach.
And yet, this wasn’t entirely foreign to me. When I first embarked on my journey of understanding Hinduism, I wasn’t looking for rituals I was looking for meaning.
Coming from a Muslim background, I grew up hearing that idol worshippers were stupid or ignorant people who prayed to objects that couldn’t even save themselves if thrown into a drain.
That was the narrative drilled into us. But one day, while passing the Sri Mariamman Temple in Chinatown the oldest Hindu temple in Singapore I paused at the doorway. I didn’t look at the idols. I looked at the people.
I saw engineers, teachers, doctors, and business owners. Educated, intelligent people yet they bowed, prayed, and offered flowers to these idols.
And in that moment, a troubling question formed at the back of my mind:
“What are they seeing that I’m not?”
That question unsettled me deeply, and it became the start of my journey.
When I spent those weekends at the oil palm temple, I wasn’t really watching the priest who slipped into altered states. I was watching the devotees their expressions, their longing, their need to “talk” to god.
I wanted to understand what they saw and why they needed it. That curiosity carried me further than I expected and shaped how I understand belief, hope, and human vulnerability today.
A Mother’s Desperation
There was one woman I’ll never forget. She had a 13-year-old daughter diagnosed with advanced-stage leukaemia. One day, her daughter was happy and healthy, splashing at Kota Tinggi waterfall with friends. The next, she came home with a fever. After a series of tests, the diagnosis shattered their world.
Doctors tried everything bone marrow extraction, chemotherapy, endless treatments but nothing worked. The mother, desperate for hope, turned to the divine. She shaved her head, carried milk pots to temples, and even made repeated trips to India. She went to see the famed Afro-haired Sai Baba, who told her that her daughter would recover.
He convinced her that the illness was tied to her daughter’s name and urged her to change it for her survival. Clinging to any possibility, she did legally, officially pouring her faith into his promise.
But it didn’t work.
When doctors finally told her that the leukaemia had worsened, I watched her crumble.
Her daughter passed away less than two years after the diagnosis.
I often wondered: what if, in her desperation, she had encountered a different faith group? What if a Christian or Muslim group had prayed for her daughter, and by chance, the child recovered? I am convinced she would have converted instantly.
That’s how fragile belief can be when it’s built on hope and survival.
But in her case, the opposite happened. Spiritually exhausted and disillusioned, she abandoned religion entirely. She stopped going to temples, stopped performing rituals, and turned her back on faith altogether.
Questions That Still Linger
That experience changed the way I see belief, desperation, and meaning.
It made me ask hard questions:
• What would I do if I were in her shoes?
• What if I, as an atheist parent, faced the same situation?
• What if someone prayed for my loved one and they miraculously recovered would it shake my worldview?
• How far are we willing to go, as parents, children, or partners, to save the people we love?
I still don’t have all the answers. Maybe I never will.
But those five years taught me this: faith, in all its forms, often grows in the cracks of desperation. It isn’t always about belief it’s about survival, hope, and the unbearable weight of uncertainty.
And that, I think, is what has stayed with me most.
