瑟丽娜：灯火与黎明：两种节庆，一种心意

当这篇专栏刊登时，元宵节已经为农历新年画上句点。阳台上的灯笼会慢慢被收起，红色装饰的边角也开始微微卷起，最后几片鸡蛋卷（kuih kapit）也会被小心翼翼地分著吃，以免心里产生太多“罪恶感”。

不过，今年的农历新年，对我来说并不是按往常的节奏展开。

因为，今年的斋戒月是在农历新年的第二天开始。

两个节庆之间没有礼仪式交接，也不是有序的过渡。前一天，全国各地仍响彻著舞狮与锣鼓声，而第二天清晨，天还未亮，许多人已经起身准备封斋前的黎明餐（sahur）。

对我来说，斋戒月的第一天，并不是在开放门户或拜年中度过，而是和母亲一起度过。

许多穆斯林家庭都明白，斋戒月的第一次开斋（iftar）总带著一种特别的意义。那不仅仅是结束一天的禁食，更是一种回归——回到信仰最初扎根的地方，回到塑造我们的人身边。坐在熟悉的餐桌旁，听著熟悉的声音，再一次与斋戒的真正意义重新连接。

因此，当许多人仍沉浸在团圆饭和拜年行程中时，我正在家中，与母亲一起进行今年斋戒月的第一次开斋。屋子里比外面热闹的街道安静许多。小盘子里整齐摆著椰枣，桌上是精心准备的热腾腾菜肴，还有那种在宣礼（azan）响起前特有的宁静。

那一刻——在禁食一天后喝下第一口水——总让我心怀谦卑。它提醒我，人是多么依赖、多么脆弱，也提醒我们应当为最简单的事物心存感恩。

然而，在那间安静的屋子之外，马来西亚依然沉浸在农历新年的喜庆之中。

远处传来鞭炮声，社区里灯笼依然亮著，社交媒体充满团圆照片。而我，则在另一种节奏中——反思、自律与祈祷。

看起来，这仿佛是两个完全不同的世界。

但奇妙的是，我并不这么觉得。

因为到了农历新年的第四天，当我开始出席开放门户和社区拜访活动时，我逐渐看见，这两个节庆背后的价值，其实有许多重叠之处。

我没有在大年初一参加团圆饭。我的农历新年，是从初四才真正开始——一家一家拜访，双手接过柑橘，向长辈问好，听他们谈起孙辈、事业，以及新一年的打算。

当我站在那些客厅里——整个过程中仍在斋戒，一边微笑聆听，一边默默计算时间——我发现一种熟悉的感觉。

农历新年讲的是团圆。是回家。是几代人同聚一屋檐下，向坐在餐桌首位的长辈表达敬意。

斋戒月的开始，其实也是如此。

第一天很少有人独自度过。人们会和家人一起，与父母、孩子、兄弟姐妹在一起。仿佛有一种本能，让我们在神圣时刻来临时，总是回到那些让我们心有所依的人身边。

在我拜访的开放门户中，我也看见同样的情景——在外地工作的子女回家团聚，祖父母静静微笑，看著屋子里充满热闹与欢笑。无论一年之中曾有多少分歧，这一刻，大家都选择重新坐在一起。

家庭，始终是第一位。

当然，也有一些有趣的时刻。

在斋戒期间拜访多场开放门户，其实需要一点“外交技巧”。主人总会热情地说：“来，吃一点。”我也温和地回答：“等开斋以后吧。”于是，他们马上转而帮我打包食物带回家。

马来西亚人的好客精神，从来不会轻易认输。

但更让我感动的是大家的体贴。人们会调整安排，会为他人腾出空间，会关心斋戒的时间，也会降低对参与方式的期待。庆祝依然继续，但多了一份理解。

而在这份理解中，我看见了尊重。

农历新年与斋戒月，都强调慷慨与分享。

农历新年里，红包象征把祝福继续传递下去。它提醒我们，财富不应被紧紧握在一个拳头里。

而在斋戒月，穆斯林每天都被提醒要施予——天课（zakat）、施舍（sedekah）、时间与耐心。我们被教导，财富、地位与权力都是托付，而不是奖杯。

不同的信封，相同的原则。

再来，是更新与重新开始。

农历新年前，人们会彻底打扫房屋，偿还债务，也努力放下旧日恩怨，让新的一年不再背负过去的苦涩。

斋戒月则要求我们进行另一种清理——内心的清理。净化心灵，检视意图，修补关系，在请求宽恕之前先学会原谅。

两个节庆，都在轻声提醒我们：重新开始。

在一次开放门户中，一位年长的叔叔握著我的手说：“YB，今年一定要平安。”

那不是政治评论，只是一份安静的期望。

同一个星期，在夜间的特拉威祈祷（tarawih）中，我也听见类似的祈愿：“愿这个斋戒月带来平静。”

和平、宁静、稳定。

这些词汇，比我们想像中更为相通。

是的，表达方式不同。农历新年庆祝丰盛——餐桌上满满佳肴，笑声延续到深夜。斋戒月则教导节制——从黎明到日落的自律，说话谨慎，控制食欲。

一个考验你拜访亲友的体力，另一个考验你耐心的定力。

但两者，其实都在考验人的品格。

当我同时经历这两个节庆时，并不觉得矛盾，反而觉得这正是马来西亚最真实的样子。

斋戒月第一天，我与母亲在一起，回到一种亲密而神圣的情感之中。农历新年第四天，我走进选区居民的家中，参与一种热闹而温暖的共同庆祝。

场景不同，心跳却相同。

感谢又走过一年的人生。
珍惜家庭的陪伴。
愿意把祝福分享给他人。
也期待明天会更好。

两个日历，一片土地。

也许，这正是马来西亚最安静却最强大的力量——我们的节庆不是彼此礼让轮流登场，而是彼此重叠、交织，在灯火与仪式背后提醒我们：人们最深的渴望其实相同——团聚、原谅，并重新开始。

瑟丽娜《灯火与黎明：两种节庆，一种心意》原文：Lanterns by Night, Sahur by Dawn
 
By the time this column is published, Chap Goh Meh will already have drawn the curtain on Chinese New Year. The lanterns will slowly disappear from balconies, the red decorations will begin to curl at the corners, and the final pieces of kuih kapit will be rationed carefully to avoid guilt.

But this year, Chinese New Year did not unfold in the usual sequence for me.

Because Ramadan began on the second day of Chinese New Year.

There was no polite handover between celebrations. No neat transition. One day the country was ringing with lion dances, and the next morning, before dawn, many of us were awake for sahur.

For me, the first day of Ramadan was not spent at open houses or festive visits. It was spent with my mother.

As most Muslim families understand, the first iftar of Ramadan carries a particular weight. It is not just about breaking fast; it is about grounding yourself. Returning to the people who shaped your faith. Sitting at a familiar table. Listening to familiar voices. Reconnecting with the reason behind the ritual.

So while others were still deep in reunion dinners and visiting schedules, I was at home, breaking my first fast with my mother. The house was quieter than the festive streets outside. There were dates arranged neatly on a small plate, warm dishes prepared with care, and that unmistakable silence just before the azan.

That moment — the first sip of water after a day of fasting — always humbles me. It reminds me how dependent we are, how fragile, how grateful we should be for the simplest things.

And yet, just outside that quiet room, Malaysia was still celebrating Chinese New Year.

The contrast could not have been clearer. Firecrackers in the distance. Lanterns glowing in neighbourhoods. Social media filled with reunion photos. And there I was, focused on reflection, discipline, prayer.

It could have felt like two separate worlds.
But strangely, it did not.

Because by the fourth day of Chinese New Year, when I began attending open houses and community visits, I started to see how deeply the values of both seasons overlap.

I did not attend reunion dinners on the first day. My Chinese New Year began later — on the fourth day — moving from home to home, accepting oranges with both hands, greeting elders, listening to stories about grandchildren, business, and the year ahead.
And as I stood in those living rooms — fasting the entire time, counting the hours quietly while smiling and listening — I noticed something familiar.

Chinese New Year is about reunion. About returning home. About gathering multiple generations under one roof and honouring the elders who sit at the head of the table.

Ramadan begins the same way.

The first day is rarely spent alone. It is spent with family. With parents. With children. With siblings. There is something instinctive about that choice. We begin sacred seasons with those who anchor us.

At the open houses I visited, I saw that same instinct. Adult children returning from other cities. Grandparents smiling quietly as noise filled the room. The sense that, whatever disagreements may exist throughout the year, this was the time to sit together again.

Family first.

There was humour too.

Attending multiple open houses while fasting requires a certain level of diplomacy. Hosts insist gently, “Just try a little.” I respond with equal gentleness, “Later, after maghrib.” They immediately pivot to packing containers for me to take home.
Malaysian hospitality does not accept defeat easily.

But what struck me was the sensitivity. People adjusted. They made space. They asked about fasting hours. They lowered expectations. Celebration continued — but with awareness.

And in that awareness, I saw respect.

Both Chinese New Year and Ramadan emphasise generosity. During Chinese New Year, ang pao symbolises blessings shared forward. It is a reminder that prosperity is not meant to be kept tightly in one fist.

During Ramadan, Muslims are reminded daily to give — zakat, sedekah, time, patience. We are taught that wealth, position and privilege are trusts, not trophies.

Different envelopes. Same principle.

Then there is renewal.

Before Chinese New Year, homes are cleaned thoroughly. Debts are settled. Old grudges are meant to be released so the year can begin without lingering bitterness.

Ramadan asks us to do something similar, but inwardly. Clean the heart. Examine intentions. Repair relationships. Seek forgiveness before asking for it.

Both seasons carry the same whisper: begin again.

One elderly uncle at an open house held my hand and said, “YB, this year must be peaceful.” It was not political commentary. It was a quiet hope.

That same week, during tarawih prayers, I heard similar words: “May this Ramadan bring calmness.”

Peace. Calmness. Stability.

The vocabulary overlaps more than we realise.

Yes, the expressions differ. Chinese New Year celebrates abundance — tables overflowing with dishes, laughter stretching late into the night. Ramadan teaches restraint — discipline from dawn to dusk, measured speech, controlled appetite.
One tests your stamina for social visits. The other tests your stamina for patience.

But both test your character.

Living through both simultaneously did not feel contradictory. It felt deeply Malaysian.

On the first day of Ramadan, I was with my mother, returning to something intimate and sacred. By the fourth day of Chinese New 
Year, I was in the homes of my constituents, celebrating something communal and vibrant.

Different settings. Same heartbeat.
Gratitude for another year of life.
Commitment to family.
Generosity towards others.
Hope that tomorrow will be kinder.

Two calendars. One country.

And perhaps that is Malaysia’s quiet strength — not that our festivals politely take turns, but that they overlap, intertwine, and remind us that beneath the colours and rituals, we are moved by the same human longing: to gather, to forgive, to begin again.

本文观点，不代表《东方日报》立场。