By Dr Rahim Said
Everyone talks about Hari Raya Aidilfitri open houses with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for flash sales and durian season. Words like silaturrahim, tradition, and community spirit are generously sprinkled — much like the bawang goreng on your nasi himpit.
But allow me to offer a slightly… less Instagrammable perspective.
To me, Syawal has evolved into a highly efficient, decentralised, month-long food distribution exercise. A seasonal industry, really. No Bursa listing yet, but give it time. It involves mass feeding of loosely organised, highly mobile units—otherwise known as “guests”— who travel in clusters from one location to another with remarkable precision.
Each unit arrives, surveys the terrain, identifies high-value targets (rendang, satay, anything labelled “special”), and proceeds to load up. There is minimal hesitation. Plates are filled with the urgency of a closing buffet line. Conversations are brief, tactical, and often conducted while chewing.
“Eh lama tak jumpa!” “Ya ya, makan dulu.”
This is not a social gathering. This is a coordinated operation.
Within 12 to 18 minutes, the unit completes its objectives: consuming, exchanging pleasantries, assessing dessert options, and exiting. The next wave is already forming at the gate, engines running, WhatsApp location pinned.
And let’s not ignore the culinary logistics. Dishes that appear lovingly prepared “this morning” may, in fact, have enjoyed a more complex journey — frozen, thawed, reheated, and given a second lease on life. It’s a testament to modern food preservation that we can consume something cooked three days ago and still smile politely while chewing, silently thanking divine intervention for sparing us from salmonella.
Meanwhile, the hosts — ah yes, the unsung heroes.
They stand at the entrance like diplomats at a never-ending summit, shaking hands with the stamina of marathon runners. Their dialogue is scripted, repetitive, and delivered with admirable consistency:
“Thank you for coming.” “Maaf zahir batin.” “Jemput makan.”
Repeat 300 times.
By guest number 147, even the most eloquent host has been reduced to a nodding automaton. Conversations become abstract. Names are forgotten mid-sentence. At some point, you are no longer sure whether you are speaking to a cousin, a colleague, or the Grab driver who just decided to join in.
And yet, the performance continues.
Because beneath the absurdity lies a social contract we dare not question. You feed me this week, I feed you next week. Calories are exchanged like diplomatic gifts. Attendance is currency. To skip an open house is not merely a scheduling conflict — it is a minor breach of national unity.
By the end of Syawal, we are all slightly heavier, socially saturated, and vaguely exhausted from pretending every conversation was meaningful.
But perhaps that is the point.
In a world increasingly curated, filtered, and optimised, the open house remains gloriously inefficient. It is loud, repetitive, slightly chaotic, and occasionally gastronomically risky.
It is also one of the few times we willingly show up, eat too much, say too little, and still feel like we’ve participated in something larger than ourselves.
Absurd? Absolutely.
But then again, so is going back for a fourth helping of rendang while insisting, “Alamak, diet already.”
See you at the next house. I’ll be the one pretending to listen while scanning for dessert.
(The views expressed here are entirely those of the writer)