The Weave Between Generations
My family doesn’t have an heirloom—at least, not one that belongs to me. There is a gold engagement
y
ring on my mother’s finger, slightly crooked, from her mother. Somewhere in my home, my father keeps
a dusty Omega watch from his late father. But these weren’t even considered heirlooms until given
sa
more thought. Their meaning, tethered to my parents’ hands, holds memories they haven’t fully told me
yet. Until they are passed down, they aren't mine to claim.
I’ve come to accept that there’s likely nothing I could choose to keep. My Nenek relocated often— to
keep potential heirlooms would have been her last priority. As the eldest of nine, helping her single
mother meant anything of value was likely sold or passed down to younger siblings. Furthermore, my
family fears keeping old things, believing they carry saka. Still, I found myself rifling through the drawers
es
of memory, searching for something—anything—worth passing down. After some time, I realised
heirlooms don’t always appear as objects wrapped in velvet or placed on a mantelpiece. Sometimes,
heirlooms take the form of tradition. Something intangible, yet deeply grounding.
Ketupat. Rice wrapped in janur, or young coconut leaves, woven into tight, symmetrical diamond-shaped
pouches, then boiled. But more than a Hari Raya dish, ketupat holds symbolic and cultural weight. Its
method of creation—precise and patient—is passed down generationally, binds people together across
's time, representing unity and resilience.
As a child growing up in Singapore, I would watch my relatives fold ketupat casings the night before Hari
Raya. Their fingers moved with practiced ease, crossing and twisting the green coconut leaves into
ah
beautiful, geometric forms. I sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, janur in my small hands determined
to follow. The fan hummed from the ceiling, failing to cool my body. I didn’t notice it then, but the room
buzzed with quiet joy. Instead, I was busy trying to make sense of the movement in my head but
failed—again and again. My fingers fumbled, leaving me with a tangled mess that barely resembled a
ketupat. Eventually, I would give up, overstimulated, the sweat slick on my face, clothes sticking to my
body, telling myself I’d get it right when I was older. Surely, with age, these things came naturally.
ys
Years have passed since those sweaty nights on the kitchen floor — the sensation of janur barely lingers
on my fingers.
“Sabar,” my grandaunt would tell me with a chuckle, patiently unravelling my mess. Looking back, she
was teaching me more than how to fold leaves. She was passing down patience—a lesson I still try to
an
perfect to this day. In this way, the ketupat was both tradition and inheritance—a living metaphor for the
qualities my elders hoped to instill.
When I moved to Melbourne, ketupat became more of a story than practice. Caught in the rhythms of a
new culture, I forgot my own—and the promises I made to my younger self. Ketupat lost its place at the
centre of my celebrations. My eyes would glaze over the plastic woven decorations that hung in houses,
their presence more decorative than sacred. This Hari Raya, having adjusted to the customs of Australia, I
nr
My family doesn’t have an heirloom—at least, not one that belongs to me. There is a gold engagement
y
ring on my mother’s finger, slightly crooked, from her mother. Somewhere in my home, my father keeps
a dusty Omega watch from his late father. But these weren’t even considered heirlooms until given
sa
more thought. Their meaning, tethered to my parents’ hands, holds memories they haven’t fully told me
yet. Until they are passed down, they aren't mine to claim.
I’ve come to accept that there’s likely nothing I could choose to keep. My Nenek relocated often— to
keep potential heirlooms would have been her last priority. As the eldest of nine, helping her single
mother meant anything of value was likely sold or passed down to younger siblings. Furthermore, my
family fears keeping old things, believing they carry saka. Still, I found myself rifling through the drawers
es
of memory, searching for something—anything—worth passing down. After some time, I realised
heirlooms don’t always appear as objects wrapped in velvet or placed on a mantelpiece. Sometimes,
heirlooms take the form of tradition. Something intangible, yet deeply grounding.
Ketupat. Rice wrapped in janur, or young coconut leaves, woven into tight, symmetrical diamond-shaped
pouches, then boiled. But more than a Hari Raya dish, ketupat holds symbolic and cultural weight. Its
method of creation—precise and patient—is passed down generationally, binds people together across
's time, representing unity and resilience.
As a child growing up in Singapore, I would watch my relatives fold ketupat casings the night before Hari
Raya. Their fingers moved with practiced ease, crossing and twisting the green coconut leaves into
ah
beautiful, geometric forms. I sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, janur in my small hands determined
to follow. The fan hummed from the ceiling, failing to cool my body. I didn’t notice it then, but the room
buzzed with quiet joy. Instead, I was busy trying to make sense of the movement in my head but
failed—again and again. My fingers fumbled, leaving me with a tangled mess that barely resembled a
ketupat. Eventually, I would give up, overstimulated, the sweat slick on my face, clothes sticking to my
body, telling myself I’d get it right when I was older. Surely, with age, these things came naturally.
ys
Years have passed since those sweaty nights on the kitchen floor — the sensation of janur barely lingers
on my fingers.
“Sabar,” my grandaunt would tell me with a chuckle, patiently unravelling my mess. Looking back, she
was teaching me more than how to fold leaves. She was passing down patience—a lesson I still try to
an
perfect to this day. In this way, the ketupat was both tradition and inheritance—a living metaphor for the
qualities my elders hoped to instill.
When I moved to Melbourne, ketupat became more of a story than practice. Caught in the rhythms of a
new culture, I forgot my own—and the promises I made to my younger self. Ketupat lost its place at the
centre of my celebrations. My eyes would glaze over the plastic woven decorations that hung in houses,
their presence more decorative than sacred. This Hari Raya, having adjusted to the customs of Australia, I
nr
