IN her debut novel, Hanna Alkaf writes about the apocalypse most Malaysians have simulated in their minds at least a couple of times already.

What would I do if a racial riot breaks out? Who would I identify as; my racial identity or that all-too-easily professed belief in common humanity? Would that perspective change in life-or-death situations? What about my friends and neighbours of other races; would they still be friends, or enemies? How would I fare in this situation of survival horror, when familiar faces start donning the hostility of strangers?

Basing an entire story on what is, for most, the most tragic period of Malaysian history is both effective and risky. It is effective because, no thanks to the stasis of Malaysian politics and the coterie of bogeymen it never sheds, the May 13 incident remains a spectre in our social life. A memory of a nightmare, one feared by many, but lived through by very few, since the actual outburst of violence in 1969 was largely confined to Kuala Lumpur even though a national emergency was declared. It is risky because the secrecy and ambivalence surrounding the incident render it for easy caricaturing and manipulation, the likes of which we see in contemporary political discourse and the propaganda films of yesteryears.

Herein lies the gripping strength of The Weight of Our Sky. It is fiction written in factualness, benefited obviously from the author’s meticulous research. Streets are named, urban legends people spoke of about the incident are re-enacted. Even the tragic backstory of schoolgirl protagonist Melati’s obsessive-compulsive behaviour is laced with an incident that historians would regard as the ominous signs of darker days to come.

Nevertheless, Hanna never lets her grounded depiction of May 13 get in the way of the riot’s surreal quality. It was, after all, an incident many Malaysians had expected to happen, given the increasing racial and religious polarisation, but never really expected to happen. Through clever interplay between scenes of external chaos and Melati’s inner demons, a sense of half-immersion is created that gives the narrative an almost dreamlike quality.

In the book, there is no revelation or build-up as to what causes the riot. The reader – like the unsuspecting characters – is plunged, without foreshadowing, into a break in Malaysia’s usual tranquillity, and has to make the best out of a frustrating, sad, and ultimately, confusing scenario. In swapping the cityscapes associated with everyday life with split-second survivalism, the reader is hauled into a conflict zone and forced to process the chaos in real time.

The novel’s “sudden drop” mechanism works perfectly because we are no better now than Melati in tracing and identifying the tipping point between fragile race relations and violent ones. The only signs alluded to in the book are not really signs. The unempathetic “othering” of groups not our own and the seething racial anger padded with daily pleasantries are typical of quotidian Malaysian life. It is difficult to say what went wrong as most of the important files are believed to be classified, and even if they are, one version of the tragedy will still stack against another.

Of course, there is also the commonly heard self-righteous lamentation of how politicians made a mountain out of a molehill, but any honest person would know from the casual to traumatic racism we face daily that the “molehill” we stood on was not made of fluffy rabbits and marshmallows anyway. Hanna traces this effectively by juxtaposing the heroic refusal of Auntie Bee’s family (sans Frankie) to retreat spiritually into their own racial enclaves in times of crisis against the sad fact of their physical retreat into a Chinese neighbourhood following a sublime sense of racial alienation at their previous residence.

This is what sets the book apart. Even if written as a young adult novel, it is astoundingly mature. Hanna promises trauma, as mentioned solemnly in the author’s note at the beginning, and delivers. Ditching any cliched celebration of “kumbaya” multiculturalism, the story offers no catharsis. The protagonists are not given the superhero’s halo to outrun or stand above a toxic environment. Heroism dissolves when the weight of our skies comes crashing down. Personal and seemingly selfish goals (such as finding one’s mum when it could potentially endanger another’s) will outweigh loftier ones.

Just like Melati’s inability to shut down her compulsive behaviour and violent thoughts despite being in extraordinary circumstances, the reader is similarly asked to deal with a situation as they find it, and not how they would like it to be. All the characters, including Vincent, who is cleverly set up to be the lovable one, snap at some point.

In the end, Melati’s unresolved complication with the jinn reminds us, metaphorically, of the healing from the riot that we never got. It speaks of the tragic realisation that the Malaysia we know today is a product of both light and darkness. And, it seems that the only way to preserve the light is to acknowledge and keep our inner demons at bay, three taps at a time. – October 6, 2019.

* A Forensic Science-Asian Studies hybrid, Nicholas Chan is interested in how authority is shaped, exercised, and more importantly, resisted in Southeast Asia.

* This is the opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malaysian Insight. Article may be edited for brevity and clarity.