PRAYING FOR PEOPLE OF YAN
Heartbreaking to know about floods that swept through the town I grew up in the 1960s
THERE is a Malay saying, “Tempat jatuh lagi dikenang, inikan pula tempat bermain”. In the last few days, there was a deluge of video clips in my WhatsApp groups, about floods in the northern states, especially in Kedah. One of the places that was and is still badly affected is Yan, a place where I spent a lot of my formative years, a place I hold dear in my heart.
It broke my heart to read and watch video clips of the disaster that happened last Wednesday, in parts of Kedah, particularly areas at the foot of Kedah Peak or Gunung Jerai.
The volume of water gushing down like rivers through small villages, and on to the towns of Yan and Gurun, had swept away trees, boulders, campsites and resorts along its path, leaving nothing much to the imagination about the scale of destruction.
Four people were killed. The search is ongoing for others missing. In the aftermath, some of the places affected is beyond recognition.
I have fond memories of living in Yan, a quiet, unassuming small town with a stunning view of Gunung Jerai in the background. On clear days, one can see the waterfall, a picture postcard coming to life.
My father was transferred from Alor Star to Yan (or known as Yen, then) in 1961, and my siblings and I went to school at the Langkasuka primary school.
We spent an almost idyllic life as children transplanted from a big town to a smaller one.
Yan was a quiet, sleepy town, awoken occasionally, as I remembered, to shouts of protests from demonstrators marching from Kampung Aceh to the small town centre.
As an 8 year old with not an iota of knowledge about the hostility brewing between Malaysia and Indonesia, I found it exciting to watch them burn effigies of then president Sukarno.
Other than that, it was a peaceful place with hidden gems for picnickers.
We had Batu Hampar and Titi Hayun, perhaps two or three hours’ walk away, and the sea on the other side of the town with stunning sunsets.
I had always held a fascination for Jerai, which was so majestic and so full of mystic.
Often, I would stand in the middle of Jalan Tunku Mahmud and look straight ahead at the Jerai, which, to my mind, was just behind the residence of then district officer Syed Sofi Aljefri, if I remember correctly.
Of all these places, it’s Titi Hayun or the swinging bridge that we would often frequent during school holidays.
Now known as the Titi Hayun Recreational Forest, it is situated 3km away from Yan.
Titi Hayun is a suspension bridge that took us across to the other side for awesome picnic areas.
I remember the walk with neighbours and friends from the town through orchards in Kampung Aceh, lugging picnic baskets and drinks.
It was quite an adventure, albeit a tiring one, made bearable by the discoveries of unusual plants and flowers.
Mak would always remind us never to pluck any, as there were “hidden beings” watching us in the forest.
The sound of the gushing water would signal that Titi Hayun was near. But after all the trekking up to the resort, then still untouched by tourism, we would need some coaxing to use the bridge, which would swing and creak as we inched our way across.
It didn’t help that my naughty cousins would jump and swing the bridge to frighten us.
The smell of the forest and the taste of the fresh water tumbling down the mountain are still vivid in my mind.
I made a trip back to Yan and Titi Hayun in 2019. The place has changed. My brother drove us through villages I hardly recognised, and surrounding the Titi Hayun Recreational Forest were resorts, chalets and recreational facilities.
With my sister, we inched our way on the bridge to the other side, reliving our childhood.
It wasn’t that scary, after all. Fifty years or so had erased that fear and coming back had helped. We walked down to the stream and the water tasted just as fresh as I had remembered.
But watching the video clips of the disaster, Titi Hayun is no more.
It was swept away by surges from waterfall areas in the mountain. It would have claimed more lives had it not been for the lockdown as picnickers would have been there having a good time with family and friends.
Yan itself was not left untouched.
I was told the muddy water had just flowed past the mosque, which we frequented for subuh prayers. The floodwaters also reached our old school, making its way to Pantai Murni and the sea.
It is a sad way to rekindle memories of a town that introduced me to not only regional politics, but also to the sentiments of a nation just enjoying life as an independent country.
It was a place where I was taught by the great Ustaz Haji Ismail Hashim, the eight-time international Quran champion, and the place where I had walked into an electronic shop to order our first Rediffusion television set.
It was that kind of a town where everyone knew everyone else. Rashid, who sold television sets and radios, knew my family and he trusted a 9 year old who just walked in and ordered one.
Pak, I knew didn’t mind because he was tired of us going to watch TV at the penghulu’s house.
Soon it was our house that became the centre for people who wanted to watch TV.
While debate is ongoing about the cause of such a monumental disaster, my thoughts and prayers are with the people of Yan, and for the place that I still hold precious in my heart.