a day ago
- Entertainment
- New Straits Times
Staging the afterlife: A play that dares to talk about death
THE cast of If There Is an Afterlife, I Hope It's Your Version Instead of Mine will insist they're not particularly close.
They'll laugh it off with jokes and playful teasing if you suggest otherwise, but spend five minutes in their company, and the truth reveals itself.
There's an unspoken intimacy in the way they move around each other, finish each other's sentences and share easy, knowing laughter.
It's the kind of bond forged by people who've walked through fire and recognised the same burn marks on others.
The play, which returned to the Kuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre recently, follows Sofia, a skeptical Malay woman wrestling with her faith while caring for her devout, cancer-stricken mother.
Three years after her mother's death, grief resurfaces when childhood friends are confronted with a family crisis of their own.
Writer-director Asyraf Syahir, better known as Acap, drew from his own experience of losing his mother three years ago. Clad in all black with the quiet intensity of someone well-acquainted with life, death, and the occasional black metal lyric, he speaks with clarity and conviction about his casting choices.
"I find people with real experiences," begins the 33-year-old, adding: "Technical stuff can be taught. Real emotions have to come from within."
That philosophy drives every choice.
Myrra Baity Khan, 31, who plays Sofia, knows grief intimately. Her father died when she was five, followed by her grandparents.
"I didn't cry for 18 years," she shares.
Of mixed Pakistani, Arab, Malay and Chinese heritage, she spent her youth "shape-shifting to fit in" and her hunger for connection drives her performance.
"When I was 17, I wrote a monologue that made this girl cry. We're still friends today. That's exactly what I want — connection," she adds, expression earnest.
Leon Khoo, 27, known as LeonieTunez, recalls his first time reading the script. "It got me in tears," he admits, adding: "I was transitioning from who I was before to who I am now."
Hailing from a conservative background, the stage became a form of liberation.
"On stage, I get to play. Maybe one day, that'll manifest in real life," he says, voice low.
For Alya Amani, a 27-year-old public relations executive and model, identity has always been complicated. Half Chinese, half Malay, she grew up feeling like she was never enough of either.
"I fit everywhere but belonged nowhere," she shares.
It was on stage that she finally found a place to call her own. Inspired by Glee and High School Musical, Alya has grown from chasing validation to chasing impact.
"If they laugh, cry or get angry — as long as they feel something, I've done my job." Errie Woo, a clinical hypnotherapist and aerial yoga instructor, takes on the role of the mother. She first discovered theatre through workshops, and her experience working with cancer patients gave her a deeper connection to the story.
"My first performance felt like a calling," confides the 47-year-old, adding: "Audiences tell us this is their story too."
What sets this production apart is its willingness to confront questions of faith openly — and from a place of uncertainty. These are people who have wrestled with their own beliefs, not to dismiss them, but out of genuine curiosity and a need to understand.
"There are so few safe spaces in Malaysia to talk about faith through doubt," says Myrra, adding: "When I saw a project with this kind of bravery, I was like, 'hell yeah!'"
For Acap, he knew that he had to approach the subject with care, choosing to explore faith broadly rather than focus on a specific religion.
"It would've been a problem narrowing it to just one, so we have two running in parallel," he explains.
And asked what was his biggest hurdle? He doesn't miss a beat.
"Money," he confides, before adding wryly: "It's all self-funded."
SHARED HEALING
Through this play, healing has taken on a new meaning for its cast.
Leon describes it as "returning to your truest self, becoming better in every way."
For Alya, it's about "learning to accept both the good and the bad."
Myrra adds: "Most Malaysian families don't talk about someone once they're gone. And that silence keeps us from grieving, from healing."
For audiences carrying their own losses, the production offers no easy comfort.
"We want to show nuance," they say, continuing: "That it's okay to feel angry, to feel unhinged. Grief is messy — it doesn't follow a straight line."
The cast hold different beliefs about what comes next.
Errie believes in reunion. Acap quietly admits he thinks we simply cease to exist. Leon is more matter-of-fact: "I'd rather not think about it. I just want to live now."
Yet within this work, they've built a space where those conflicting truths can sit side by side.
Because when someone you love is gone, and they believed in peace beyond this life, maybe it's enough to hope they were right. That their version of the afterlife exists, even if it isn't yours.
And sometimes, that fragile, imagined possibility is its own kind of peace.
This isn't sugar-coated reassurance. It's an embrace. A quiet, unflinching reminder: we get it. It hurts. But you don't have to carry it alone.
