25-05-2025
Broken but not beaten: How strays gave Shima a reason to live
"THIS is just a chat, right? No recording?" Rafizah Shima Mohd Aris messages me on WhatsApp.
"It's an interview. I'll be recording it, but it's not a live broadcast lah!" I reassure her.
It raises the question: is she staying out of the spotlight by choice, or does her work require it?
The issue of stray animals, especially dogs, may be complex — tangled in sensitivities, legal grey areas and divided opinions. Some see them as creatures in need of care; others, as a threat or nuisance. Caught in between, they face rescue, indifference or cruelty.
Each case sparks debate, pitting calls for stronger welfare laws against demands for stricter control. It's a battle waged in courtrooms, on social media, and in the streets, making Shima's work both essential and contentious.
But the 44-year-old is no stranger to the spotlight. She has frequently made headlines for exposing animal abuse and leading rescues that have drawn both praise and controversy.
There's something inherently defiant — and undeniably brave — about the way Shima stands up for injured and abused animals. Her unwavering commitment hasn't only saved countless lives, but also placed her in the direct line of fire from those who see her work as a challenge to religious beliefs and societal norms.
So, it's understandable if she's a little hesitant about publicity. I'm holding my breath, fingers crossed, waiting for her response when my phone pings again. Her message pops up and I can't help but laugh.
"Okay sure. No need to do makeup all then!"
LOVE CHANGES EVERYTHING
The interview gets off to an unexpectedly interesting start, revealing more about her than I'd anticipated. When I assume she was the kind of child who loved animals, rescuing stray kittens and puppies, she quickly sets the record straight.
"No!" she says, shaking her head. "I was never an animal lover."
She grew up in a strict, conservative family. "Like many Malays, we were taught to be afraid of dogs," she confides, adding: "It wasn't just a rule; it was something we truly believed. Whenever I saw a dog, I ran."
She sees my surprised expression and sighs. "Well, this is me. I have to be honest."
Life had a way of unfolding on its own and that stance would soon change. One thing led to another, and nothing went as she'd hoped. By 2017, she was divorced — a single mother raising two children on her own.
Her face softens with sadness. "I could see how unhappy my children were. Divorce is hard enough for the couple, but for kids? They suffer the most." It was during the pandemic when she took her children out for a meal at a mamak stall. That's when they spotted a small kitten begging for food.
"Mummy, can we please bring it home?" her daughter pleaded. She smiles at the memory. "I had all sorts of excuses — my asthma lah … this lah … that lah …" But looking at their hopeful faces, she couldn't bring herself to say no. So, they took the kitten home and everything changed.
"My children started smiling again," she says quietly, adding: "Caring for that kitten gave them something to hold on to and it taught them responsibility. The divorce had shaken their world, taking away the security and love they once knew. But in that tiny creature, they found comfort. They learned that love could still exist, even if it looked different from before."
A cat first changed how Shima saw animals — but her first real rescue came when she least expected it.
Not long after starting a new job following her divorce, she'd pass a group of stray dogs — a sea of brown near a busy U-turn — on her daily drive home. "I saw them every day," she recalls.
But one day, something different caught her eye. Among the familiar brown strays was a black puppy. It wasn't just its colour that made it stand out. It had a deep, raw wound on its head, impossible to ignore.
"Oh goodness, that looks really bad," she thought. But then she reassured herself: "It's okay lah. Someone will help. This is a busy road… people pass by all the time."
Yet, the next day, and the day after that, the puppy was still there.
"It was a public road. So many people used it. Oh my God, you know what? I just couldn't ignore it anymore. It wasn't okay. If I waited, that puppy would die," she recalls.
Desperate but unsure what to do, she called her non-Muslim friends. "Can you help me? Tell me what to do. I don't want to touch it. I'm scared of dogs!" she admitted.
Her friends didn't hesitate. "It's okay, Shima," they reassured her. "We'll come."
With their help, the injured puppy — whom Shima named Bond — was taken to the vet. After receiving treatment, he was placed in a shelter run by an old Indian man she called Uncle Samy.
"It was within the compound of an Indian temple," she recalls, adding: "There were about 20 other dogs there. I was still terrified of dogs, but I wanted to see how Bond was doing."
Determined to overcome her fear, Shima began visiting the shelter regularly. At first, it wasn't easy. She'd stand back, watching from a distance, trying to get used to the sight of so many dogs in one place.
"It was scary!" she recalls, adding: "You know how dogs are — they get excited, they jump on you. And I was just standing there thinking, 'Oh man, I'm going to die in here!'"
As Shima watched the dogs being cared for, a question kept nagging at her.
"These dogs were lucky," she thought. "They were fed twice a day. They were safe. But what about the other stray animals out there?"
The thought wouldn't leave her. Slowly, she started asking around, learning more, and before she knew it, she was rescuing animals herself. At first, she kept it quiet, working behind the scenes. She started with cats, taking in so many that, at one point, she had more than 10 living in her house.
She admits: "My parents weren't happy. I mean, I had asthma! It became a big issue. There were many arguments, a lot of 'I don't want to talk to you for a few days…'" She laughs now, but back then, it wasn't easy. Still, she couldn't stop. The more she saw, the more she felt she had to help.
Shima continued helping out at the shelter where Bond was first taken in. "I helped Uncle Samy take the dogs to the vet, raised funds and kept rescuing other strays," she shares.
One of her most well-known rescues was Cera, a tiny pup whose story began with a desperate call in the middle of the night.
"The first time I saw her, it was heartbreaking," Shima recalls, adding: "She was just a tiny puppy with both legs broken. She'd been beaten repeatedly and was terrified of humans."
Without hesitation, she rushed Cera to a veterinary clinic, where surgeons implanted a metal plate in one of her limbs. "Today, she's a happy, thriving dog," Shima tells me, adding: "Bond and Cera are still with me. They're my first rescues lah. I couldn't let them go!"
It wasn't just about the animals; it was about saving herself, too. She sighs, before confiding: "I was going through a really painful time with my divorce. Rescuing them… it felt like, for the first time in a long time, I had a purpose."
CHALLENGES AND HEARTACHES
Just when life seemed to be settling, Shima received the worst news imaginable — she was diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer in 2021.
"I was devastated. I'd already gone through a tough divorce, and now it was cancer. There was a point where I just gave up. I kept thinking, 'Why me?'" she admits. The aggressive cancer demanded relentless rounds of chemotherapy.
"I sank deep into myself. The rescues stopped. I just didn't have it in me to do anything else," she recalls. But one thing she refused to give up was her cats. Despite her oncologist's advice, she kept them.
Her family was upset. "They told me cats were dirty, that I was too ill to care for them and that they'd only make me worse. But I was adamant. For the first time, I stood up to my father and said, 'I need them. I need them to survive, to fight cancer.'"
So, the cats stayed.
Then came another heartbreak.
During her treatment, one of her rescued dogs, whom she'd nursed back to health, passed away. The dog had been diagnosed with cancer before, but with regular vet visits and treatment, the tumour had been successfully managed.
"The cancer came back while I was sick," Shima shares softly. "Losing her was a turning point for me. That's when I knew I had to fight. I couldn't bear to lose another animal."
She threw herself back into rescue work with renewed determination. "I remember saving two dogs while I was still in treatment," she says, with a small smile. "In a way, it made me stronger."
Shima did get stronger. Eventually, she went into remission. Her family was amazed by her recovery. But what meant the most to her was their understanding.
"I remember my mum saying maybe it was the animals who prayed for me, who helped me heal," she recalls, voice thick with emotion. "That meant everything. It was her way of telling me that what I was doing mattered. And maybe she was right — the animals I saved might have saved my life."
What about her father? I ask.
She grows quiet for a moment. "My dad still doesn't understand," she replies, adding: "He still doesn't accept my choices. But it's okay. As long as my mum and siblings understand, that's enough."
From rescuing dozens of dogs trapped in hoarding situations to exposing puppy mills, taking in stray cats and speaking out against animal abuse, Shima stepped into the spotlight. She was no longer just a rescuer; she was becoming a well-known activist.
One of her most high-profile cases involved saving nearly 35 dogs and 20 cats from a single house. "It was huge," she recalls, adding: "I had to call in a lot of people to help. It eventually became a police case."
But with greater visibility came criticism. Some in the community began to question whether her work aligned with her faith.
The fitness trainer remains steadfast, explaining that she performs the sertu cleansing each time she comes into contact with dogs — washing the area seven times, including once with water mixed with soil, as prescribed in Islamic practice.
She even keeps Sertu soap on hand — a clay-based cleanser designed to meet Islamic purification guidelines — making the process easier, especially when she's on the go. It's her way of honouring her faith while continuing to care for strays.
She sighs, her expression a blend of weariness and quiet resolve. "I can take the criticism," she insists softly. "But I just can't give up. If I don't help them, who will?"
That question continues to fuel her resolve. No amount of criticism will make her stop. She's relentless, undeterred by judgment, and as long as there are animals in need, she'll be there — rescuing, healing and fighting for them.
She often thinks back to the day she found Bond, a tiny puppy with a wound on its head. It had been left to fend for itself, ignored by the hundreds of people who'd passed by. But she noticed. A woman at her lowest, struggling with heartbreak and depression, stopped and made a choice.
"It was Allah," she says simply. "He led me to that puppy, just as He led me back to Him. My struggles — divorce, cancer — weren't punishments. They were redirections. I've learnt that life isn't just about me. It's about something greater."
For Shima, rescuing animals is more than a mission. It's a purpose that has shaped her journey. And in saving them, she has come to realise that, in their own way, they've been saving her, too.
