That morning, excitement followed me like a quiet companion. As I drove past endless rows of palm trees, the road curved gently around small hills, threading its way through the Percha Reserve Forest toward a district in Tampin called Keru. There was a sense of anticipation in the air, as though I was heading toward something fragile and rare—something that time itself was slowly erasing. Until then, I had never heard of Istiadat Kerjan Penghulu Pesaka, let alone witnessed it. That day marked my first encounter with a living tradition, one that felt intimately close to my heart, rooted in my own Minangkabau lineage.
At the gate of an old traditional house known as Telapak Penghulu Pesaka Luak Keru, I was greeted by Puan Misah, one of the women coordinating the ceremony. Her warmth mirrored that of everyone present. Before the ritual began, the women were encouraged to wear a telepok, the traditional Minangkabau headgear reserved for moments of significance. A piece of batik was gently placed in my hands, and with practiced grace, another woman wrapped it around my head. In that moment, I felt myself being folded into history. I smiled—this was more than adornment; it was belonging. I stood ready, telepok in place, heart quietly full.
Outside the house, I was invited to sit and partake in traditional kuih, their sweetness lingering as the steady rhythm of Tumbuk Kalang filled the air. A long wooden mortar, the kalang, and wooden pestles, alu, once tools of daily survival, became instruments of art. With each strike, sound rose from labor and memory, echoing a time when music was born from the earth and the hands that worked it.
When the ceremony finally began, only a chosen few were allowed inside. Men clad in black Baju Melayu entered solemnly, followed by six elderly women, all wearing matching turquoise batik telepok. The rest of us waited outside, witnesses from afar. I learned that the men were Datuk Lembaga and Buapak, and the women, the revered Ibu Soko of Keru—guardians of lineage, representatives of suku and luak. When I was quietly invited to enter, I climbed the wooden steps with care, almost holding my breath. A thought passed through me: there are seven women here now.
What unfolded before me was humbling. The first strike of the gong reverberated through the house, announcing the beginning of something ancient and sacred. One by one, the tepak sirih, keris, tanjak, and the Al-Quran were presented to the newly appointed Penghulu Pesaka of Keru, YM Dato’ Johan Pahlawan Ismail B. Md Nor. Time seemed to dissolve. I felt as though I had stepped into the past, into an era when life moved in rhythm with adat, where meaning was carried not in haste, but in ritual and reverence. The ceremony closed as it began, with the sound of the gong—full, final, and resonant. Not long after, Kaus Yang Teramat Mulia Tunku Besar Tampin Kolonel (K) Tunku Syed Razman Ibni Tunku Syed Idrus Al-Qadri arrived and shared a feast prepared with care by the people of Keru.
That was how the day unfolded. Yet what stayed with me went far beyond chronology. In reflection, I felt an ache—an awareness of how close we are to losing ourselves. Our identities, our histories, the sacredness of adat feel increasingly fragile as we are swept along by foreign pop cultures, from the West to the unstoppable tide of K-dramas and K-pop. To witness this ceremony still alive, still practiced by the Minangkabau community in Negeri Sembilan, felt like a quiet resistance against forgetting. And yet, a question lingered: when these elders are no longer here, who will remember? Who will carry this knowledge forward, and with it, the soul of the community?
Some of the Ibu Soko walked with canes, their steps slow but steady. Yet they were held in the highest esteem. I learned that no Penghulu Pesaka can be appointed without their consent—before any discussions, before any decisions, their voices must be heard. Their wisdom is not symbolic; it is essential. In a modern world that often frames gender equality as a struggle, our traditions tell a different story—one where women have always held authority, respect, and influence. This, more than anything else that day, filled me with pride. It reminded me that strength does not always shout; sometimes, it speaks softly, through memory, ritual, and the enduring presence of women who hold a community together.
As I left Keru that day, the road through the forest felt quieter, almost reverent. What I carried with me was not just the memory of a ceremony, but a deeper understanding of who we are when we choose to remember. Istiadat Kerjan Penghulu Pesaka is more than ritual—it is a living inheritance, held together by community, reverence, and the steady hands of those who refuse to let it fade.
Photographer: Farez
