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Sinar Daily
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- Sinar Daily
Divided voices of Seribu Tahun reflect Malaysia's growing media maturity
In a local TV landscape often filled with predictable plots and familiar tropes, Seribu Tahun has quietly emerged as a bold outlier. The Malay-language drama, which has sparked conversations across social media, stepped into rarely explored territory, weaving LGBT themes into its storyline while firmly grounded in Malay-Muslim cultural contexts. Unlike shows designed to provoke controversy for attention, Seribu Tahun took a different path: it doesn't push agendas, it invites dialogue. Through emotional storytelling and layered characters, it challenges viewers to reflect, not react — offering a rare lens into conversations often left unheard in mainstream Malaysian media. Universiti Teknologi Mara (UiTM) Faculty of Film, Theatre and Animation lecturer, Ts Mastura Muhammad viewed this public discourse as a sign of progress rather than division. 'The polarised response to Seribu Tahun reveals the evolving state of public discourse in Malaysia. These reactions reflect a society negotiating its values, caught between maintaining traditional norms and grappling with modern complexities. 'Rather than viewing this division as a weakness, it signals the maturity of a media-literate public willing to critically engage with content,' she told Sinar Daily. The series stands out precisely because it refuses to offer simple answers or push a singular perspective. Instead, Seribu Tahun contextualises the struggles of its characters with nuance and care. This approach transforms mainstream media into a dynamic arena for national conversation, provided stories like these are handled with depth and ethical clarity. Mastura emphasised that the drama's layered storytelling offers multiple perspectives rather than promoting a specific ideology or identity. In Malaysia, television drama is often seen as light entertainment, an escape from daily life. But Seribu Tahun challenges this perception. Mastura pointed out that drama can and should serve as a platform for meaningful dialogue. The Seribu Tahun debates reflect a growing public willingness to think critically, engage deeply and confront complexity. Photo: Facebook 'Audience reactions, especially those expressed via platforms like TikTok, have offered thoughtful interpretations of the show's themes, drawing from both social and religious frameworks. These kinds of responses contribute to a richer and more constructive media environment than the usual reception given to formulaic romantic dramas. 'In contrast to other local productions that have mishandled sensitive themes, such as the casual acknowledgment of biological fathers in cases of children born out of wedlock, a portrayal that contradicts Islamic teachings, Seribu Tahun demonstrates a more ethically grounded narrative approach. 'Controversial issues in the series are carefully contextualised or resolved, reflecting a sincere effort to balance creative freedom with cultural and religious considerations,' she added. Malaysia's society is often labelled as conservative, but this simplification overlooks the rich diversity of moral and ideological standpoints held across its population. For filmmakers navigating this landscape, ethical storytelling becomes a tightrope walk. 'Directors and scriptwriters must navigate this complex terrain, shaped by regulation, religious sensitivities and public expectations. Ethical representation in such a setting demands commitment to narrative integrity without falling into sensationalism. 'When addressing taboo topics like LGBT identities, religion, or intersexuality (khunsa), it is crucial for filmmakers to craft portrayals that are contextually relevant, culturally respectful and ethically responsible,' she mentioned. The reach of television drama means these stories carry the power to amplify voices too often sidelined. More than just showing these identities or issues, such narratives invite society to listen and reflect rather than react in knee-jerk fashion. Through these stories, Mastura said that we can come closer to understanding Malaysia's heterogeneous social fabric, rather than perpetuating the illusion of cultural uniformity.
New Straits Times
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New Straits Times
Banished for love: A son forges strength from his mother's sacrifice
FROM the corner of the mirror, I catch a glimpse of him — a tall figure with streaks of blond woven through his hair, moving in quiet, deliberate rhythm. Dressed in a vibrant sweat top and a bandana knotted tightly around his head, he seems untouched by the growing trickle of students filing into the room. Their excited chatter floats around him like background static, but he continues to remain locked in his own private world, his athletic body swaying in slow gyrations as he works through the final touches of his choreography. The music clicks on, a pulsing beat permeating the cosy studio called Believe Fitness in Bandar Sri Damansara, and with a sudden turn, he snaps out of his trance. The crease of concentration melts into a broad, infectious grin. "Welcome everyone! Any newcomers to the class today?" he hollers, voice crackling with energy. The lights suddenly dim. A familiar medley hums to life. Azroz Mohd — or Roy, as he's better known — turns to face the mirror with a theatrical flourish. In an instant, the room shifts. The enthusiastic crowd — comprising predominantly ladies — falls into rhythm, feet stamping with gusto and bodies swaying in unison, following their instructor's every move like a tide drawn to the moon. FORGED IN FIRE The affable but intensely private Roy, a well-loved senior lecturer in the faculty of Film, Theatre and Animation with Universiti Teknologi MARA (UiTM), hails from Sungai Petani, Kedah, a modest northern town where he grew up in a household shaped by resilience and unspoken affection. His father was a stern security company worker, his mother, Yong Rashidah, born Ng Bee Yong, known in town as a 'chef', catered for Chinese funerals — massive Chinese wakes, where mourners gather for days, where food fills the silence left by grief — a niche but vital role in a community where food often bridges life and death. Her name (and her sisters) was known in Sungai Petani and Alor Star. But theirs wasn't a typical family. "My mum converted to Islam to marry my father. When she did, her family cast her out," Roy confides quietly as we settle down over coffee at one of my favourite haunts, My Dear Patrick, located in Bandar Sri Damansara. In a small town like Sungai Petani, where religious and racial lines run deep and old prejudices die hard, such a decision wasn't just frowned upon — it was betrayal. No longer clad in his bright gym gear, the man sitting across from me feels more grounded — earnest, yet still quietly charismatic. He leans in a little and continues softly: "She had a tough life. But she never gave up." Despite the fracture, Roy's maternal grandmother, a traditional woman from China, lived just a door away. It was with Ahma that he sought refuge from the rigid expectations of his father and the volatile complexities of growing up between cultures. "I don't come from a 'lovey-dovey' or openly affectionate family. My dad was very garang (strict)," Roy confides, the corners of his lips curling into a small, wistful smile. Adding, he remembers: "I would sometimes get beaten up etc… This made me distance myself from early on." It was in these formative spaces — torn between filial duty, cultural divides and a fierce longing for creative expression — that Roy's identity quietly took root. The third of four siblings and the eldest son, Roy knew expectations sat heavily on his shoulders. But even early on, he'd already sensed that he was cut from a different cloth. If life were a straight road, the driven Taurus would have been an interior designer. That was his plan. Or so he thought. Asked to rewind back his early years, Roy remembers that secondary school was a battlefield. In the Kedah of "back then", it seems that racial lines weren't just drawn; they were fortified. "It was like, if you mixed with Chinese, you were betraying the Malays," he remembers. His eyes take on a faraway look when he shares that he had his fair share of bullying. "I even had eggs thrown at me in the mall. I had teachers warning me to stay away from my Chinese classmates. But what could I do? I'm half Chinese, what?" There was no Chinese secondary school that his family could afford to send him to. So, he navigated a Malay education system that sometimes made him feel foreign in his own skin. "But I always believed — they're human too." Slowly, with stubborn kindness and a refusal to shrink, he won people over. It wasn't easy. And it never fully left him. After sitting for his Sijil Pelajaran Malaysia (SPM), he "fled" to Kuala Lumpur to escape the nest and help his brother-in-law with his firm. The creative industry, admits Roy, wasn't something he'd originally set his sights on. "I've always loved painting, designing interiors and playing with Lego — building things with my hands," he recalls, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His initial plan was to pursue interior design for his diploma. When the time came for him to choose courses via UPU, Roy listed acting as his fourth or fifth option, never imagining it would become his reality. Fate, however, had its own ideas. "I received a call from the performing arts faculty to come for an interview in Shah Alam," he remembers. On his way there, another call came through — this time from UiTM Kedah for an interview in interior design. Shares Roy: "I called my mum and told her I'd just grab whatever opportunity I had first, and if I didn't like it, I'd switch later." What he didn't anticipate was falling in love with the arts. "I'm not from a rich family," Roy admits, adding: "If I'd gone for art and design, I might not have been able to afford to finish it because of the high costs. So, I just proceeded with performing arts." Ironically, Roy confesses that neither dancing nor acting came naturally to him. "To be honest, I don't know how to dance and I'm bad at acting," he says, chuckling. What he did enjoy was everything behind the scenes. "For final year projects, every semester, I'd volunteer to help build the set or manage the lighting," he shares. That technical, artistic side of theatre spoke to something instinctive in him — the satisfaction of creating worlds from scratch. Later, his academic path took him further. "I have a diploma in theatre from UiTM, specifically in stage acting. For my degree, I took creative industry management — I was part of the first batch in UiTM to do it," says Roy, before sharing that opportunity knocked again when he received a scholarship offer. "I got a call saying I'd received a scholarship to go to the United States to do my master's in arts and cultural management. I completed it in 1½ years." The arts became his canvas, and slowly, a refuge from the expectations of being a good Malay son, a dutiful Muslim boy, a half-Chinese child in a town that didn't know what to do with him. STAYING GROUNDED His career unfolded like a restless tide. From events management to assistant directing, from Fadzil Manap's television dramas to the psychedelic depths of Pukau, Roy has made himself indispensable in a dozen fields. Zumba entered his life as an unexpected release valve. "You know how the creative industry can sometimes be stressful? I'd join classes where I could scream, shout and be funny." A teacher nudged him to get certified. Nine years later, it's still his escape. He calls himself a multi-hyphenate now, a chameleon in the creative world. Assistant director on Duyung: Legenda Aurora, wardrobe overseer for mermaid costumes, producer, Zumba instructor, lyricist even experimental artificial intelligence music creator. The throughline is not the titles, but the drive. "I want to be the go-to guy," he confides, adding: "Stage by stage. Learn, experience, contribute." But for all his outward bravado, Roy is, surprisingly, an introvert at heart. After events, he retreats into quiet. "It's like… you know how Beyonce becomes Sasha Fierce? Same," he exclaims, grinning. His sanctuary lies not in glittering cityscapes, but in islands, mountains, kampung. He builds miniature houses to soothe his restless mind. "While building, I compute what went wrong, what steps I missed. Then, I re-strategise." And always, there is his mother. At 69, Yong Rashidah remains his anchor. She never studied beyond Year 6, yet continues to self-educate, now with an iPad Roy bought her. "She says it's too bad there are no classes for old folks in Sungai Petani," shares Roy, pride lacing his tone. He texts her every morning and night, calls her every week. In the States, when it was too expensive to call, it was once a month — but never forgotten. "She's strict but loving. She never hit us. A slight change of tone, we already know something's wrong." Roy carries her voice (and that of his Ahma) in his head always: If you do something, do it wholeheartedly. Make the impossible possible. Meanwhile, his grandmother's absence continues to leave a quieter ache. A traditional woman, she might not have understood the world Roy has chosen for himself, but he continues to "involve" her in his life today. He visits her grave whenever he's home, sharing with her what he's up to, and regaling her with his small victories. The boy who once ran to her house after school for solace now brings his burdens — and achievements — to her resting place. His faith, taught strictly by his father — qhatam the Quran, know what's wajib, understand the consequences — remains a quiet, constant thread. "If I'm not doing it, it's my own fault. My dad used to say that to me when I was growing up," recalls Roy sombrely. There's no performance in his practice, just a tether to something that held steady when other things didn't. BUILDING A LEGACY As the last traces of my coffee settle into a heart-shaped foam at the bottom of the cup, I sit back, quietly sifting through the conversation that had stretched, unhurried, across two full hours. In Roy's world, ambition isn't measured in applause or fortune. It's etched into the invisible systems he leaves behind. Whether it's a meticulously organised storage unit in a New York factory, a budgeting spreadsheet in a bustling film studio, or a reporting protocol for a university newsroom, his fingerprints linger in the efficiencies he builds, in the spaces where others find their light because someone like him had once cleared the path. His dream sounds simple when spoken aloud, but it carries the weight of a thousand quiet battles: to be a multi-hyphenate in a world intent on reducing people to a single, convenient label. "Regardless where you put me," he says, steady conviction in his voice, "I'll adapt and thrive." And when posed what his mother is proudest of, his face softens. "She says, if there's another life, she'd want to be my mother again. And I'd wish to be her son too." In Roy's story, grief is repurposed, identities flow unbound, and every space — whether it's a funeral kitchen, a theatre stage, a film set, or a Zumba class —becomes a platform to build something lasting. In the layered, complicated tapestry of Malaysia's race and religion, his mere existence is a quietly defiant act. A refusal to be boxed in, a gentle but firm claiming of space. And somewhere in a modest corner of Sungai Petani, there's a mother scrolling through YouTube on her iPad, still believing in the boy she raised. For those who doubted, those who questioned his loyalties or hurled their eggs, Roy has no score left to settle. He's already at work, quietly building his legacy.
