Every year, like clockwork, I get pulled out of the dusty box in the store room, shoved into the soil with zero ceremony, and expected to “light up” everyone’s Raya. No thank you, no greetings—just a quick “Cepat, cepat! Nak Raya ni!” and suddenly, I’m on fire.
Literally.
Hi. I’m a pelita. Yes, that tiny traditional oil lamp that no one under the age of 10 knows how to use anymore.
Back in the day, I was the main character of the Raya season. Kids would run out barefoot to light me up with kerosene. Laughter echoed through the kampung. I stood proudly next to lemang stalls, watching rendang boil and fireworks light up the sky.
Now? I’m just background scenery for teenagers doing the “Velocity” challenge. You know the one—tum tak tum tum tak—and suddenly people are posing to the screen, moving around, while I’m flickering in the corner like an unpaid extra. Not one of them has ever posted “Lighting my pelita with love.” No. It’s all “GRWM” and outfit transitions while I fight to stay alive in the wind.
And don’t get me started on Raya Eve. From my post beside the front gate, I witness peak Malaysian drama every year. Mak screaming from the kitchen about missing kuih, Ayah pretending to mop but clearly checking the football scores, and that one cousin who somehow manages to spill air sirap on everything, including me. One time, a cat stole a satay and caused a level of chaos I haven’t seen since 1998. The aunties were running, the kids were screaming, and I—poor me—got knocked over in the process. No apology. No “Sorry, pelita.” Just silence and a cracked stand.
But my greatest enemy? Rain. One drop, and poof—there goes my flame, my dignity, and my purpose. Meanwhile, the flashy LED lights keep blinking like nothing happened, with their 72 colour modes and smug little remote controls. Must be nice to be waterproof. Meanwhile I’m out here, soaking, shivering, waiting for someone to rescue me like I’m a soggy leftover ketupat.
Still, despite all the drama and neglect, I love Raya. I love the smell of lemang at 4 a.m., the awkward but heartfelt salam-salaman sessions where everyone pretends they’re not crying, and the joy of families coming together—loud, chaotic, beautiful. I’ve stood by this house for years, through laughter, grief, and everything in between. I’ve watched children grow up, grandparents grow old, and babies take their first steps across the porch where I burn quietly.
So this Raya, maybe spare a thought for the little things—the old traditions, the quiet moments, the flickers of the past that still glow in the present. You may not notice me, but I’ll still be here, lighting the way home.
Selamat Hari Raya. And please, next year… don’t step on me.
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Isabel Lim is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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