IF I were palm oil this Hari Raya, I would begin my story not in a cooking oil bottle, but on the road. For this is the season when roads come alive.
Highways suddenly remember who we are. Asphalt that has carried decades of tyres begins humming again with journeys – drawn by the quiet pull of home and the promise of laughter and long-awaited homecomings.
Balik kampung season is never merely about congestion; it is about convergence. Cities loosen their grip. Villages inhale again. And Malaysia, if only for a few precious days, rediscovers its festivity rhythm.
I still carry the memory of those long bus rides as a boy during Chinese New Year – wedged between family members and plastic bags of oranges and cookies as we rolled slowly along the old Federal Highway from Petaling Jaya to Pandamaran.
The air smelled faintly of citrus, the adults’ conversations droned softly in the background, and that peculiar childhood boredom somehow turned the journey into something almost sacred.
Last Saturday was Hari Raya. Different festivity and calendars perhaps, but the same emotional global positioning system guiding us home.
This Raya, millions will make similar pilgrimages. Buses and cars will be packed with children, kuih tins, gifts, expectations and perhaps a few unresolved conversations waiting politely for the right moment.
And quietly, without asking for legroom, palm oil will travel too – folded into kuih Raya, crisped into keropok, tucked into sambal jars and other bottles of Raya goodies.
Palm oil never misses a reunion. In truth, it has always been there – quietly woven into the gathering, like the aroma from the kitchen that tells everyone they are home.
The quiet cousin everyone depends on
Every family has one. The quiet cousin. The one who does not dominate conversations or announce achievements over dessert. The one who rarely volunteers opinions about politics, football or the price of durian. In fact, you might barely notice them at the table.
But remove them – just once – and suddenly the gathering feels strangely incomplete. The room still looks the same, the laughter still circulates, but something essential is missing. Palm oil is that cousin.
It does not arrive wrapped in Mediterranean mystique or imported glamour. It does not whisper vineyard stories or parade itself as “cold-pressed with personality”.
Palm oil simply shows up, warms up and gets on with the job - efficiently, patiently and reliably.
In the kitchen, palm oil is not dramatic. It does not flare up for attention or sulk in delicate temperatures. Instead, it listens.
It allows onions to turn crispy, spices to bloom confidently and chillies to express themselves with proper enthusiasm.
It carries flavour the way seasoned elders carry family secrets - steady, discreet and without unnecessary commentary.
Remove palm oil and watch the quiet chaos unfold. Keropok loses its courage. Kuih-muih become slightly confused about their identities. And rendang - well - rendang, feeling deeply misunderstood, refuses to cooperate altogether.
Palm oil does not shout. It sizzles - confidently, consistently and very often without applause.
Rendang is not to be rushed (neither is life). If Hari Raya had a philosophy, it might well be written in the language of rendang.
Rendang is not a dish for impatient people. It resists shortcuts the way old kampung roads resist straight lines. It demands patience, attention and a certain humility before the fire.
Turn the heat too high and it retaliates. Walk away too long and it quietly reminds you who is truly in charge.
Good rendang is not cooked. It is persuaded. Palm oil understands this better than most. It holds the spices with steady hands. It spreads heat evenly, like a wise mediator keeping peace at a lively family gathering. It allows flavours to deepen, mingle and discover one another rather than burn in youthful enthusiasm.
In many ways, palm oil becomes the quiet spiritual director of the pot - firm without fuss, forgiving without complaint and deeply aware that the finest things in life require time.
Hari Raya follows the same gentle wisdom. Forgiveness needs simmering. Gratitude needs slow stirring. Reconciliation cannot be microwaved. Like rendang, relationships mature best when tended patiently – nurtured with care, humour and occasionally a little extra santan.
Palm oil understands this well. After all, it has been practising the art of quiet stewardship for generations.
Pelita lamps and verandah wisdom
On Raya eve, when pelita lamps flicker softly along kampung paths and the sky settles into shades of amber and indigo, stories return to their rightful place. Even the wind seems to slow down to listen.
Imagine Atuk Ahmad seated on his wooden verandah, his songkok adjusted just so - the posture of a man who has known both hard seasons and good harvests.
Beside him, his granddaughter Anessa curls up comfortably, her freshly ironed baju raya waiting patiently for morning while her curiosity - still delightfully creased - refuses to wait.
On such Raya eves, a conversation is almost certain to unfold. “Atuk,” she asks, leaning against him, “why do people talk so much about palm oil?” Atuk smiles - the smile of someone who has lived long enough to know that the most important things in life are rarely fashionable.
“Well,” he begins, gazing towards the oil palms swaying quietly in the distance, “it was not always like this.”
He speaks of earlier days - of rubber trees that bled slowly at dawn, their white latex dripping patiently into small cups.
Of paddy fields watching the sky nervously for rain. Of fishermen leaving before sunrise and returning at dusk with hope balanced delicately between their nets.
Life then was honest. But it was also fragile. “And then,” Atuk says gently, “came oil palm.” Steady. Reliable. Fruitful through sun and storm alike.
“My father worked the land so that I could go to school,” he says. “I worked so your father could go to university. That is rezeki halal, blessings earned slowly, season by season.”
Anessa listens carefully. She is absorbing more than facts. She is absorbing continuity - the quiet inheritance of effort and gratitude.
“But Atuk,” she asks after a moment, choosing her words carefully, “some people say palm oil is bad.”
Atuk chuckles softly, the sound of someone who has heard many arguments in his lifetime.
“People often say many things when they are afraid of being left behind,” he replies.
“Palm oil produces more oil on less land than any other crop in the world. That means efficiency. That means feeding more people while using less land. And today our plantations follow rules to protect forests, wildlife and rivers.”
He pauses, letting the night breeze finish the thought. “Balance, Anessa. Everything meaningful in life needs balance.” She tilts her head thoughtfully. “So palm oil is like family?”
Atuk laughs. “Exactly. Strong and sustainable when nurtured. Often misunderstood. And always better when handled with patience, facts, wisdom and a little humility.”
From the nearby surau, the first echoes of takbir begin to rise gently into the night. And under the quiet watch of the oil palms, another story finds its way home.
Everywhere, yet invisible
If I were palm oil, this is where I might gently clear my throat. I am not only in your rendang, lemang and kuih Raya.
I am in the soap used before prayers. The shampoo that tames Raya hair. The lipstick that survives ten open houses. The biodiesel that fuels your journey home.
The sanitiser that protected hands when Raya was quieter and lonelier. During Covid, when the world paused and families celebrated through screens, palm oil did not stop working. It cleaned. It protected. It sustained. No applause. No headlines.
I have fed families in joy and served nations in crisis - often unseen, rarely thanked. And yet I remain content to be called “just cooking oil”.
One table, many stories
Hari Raya is not a festival of excess. It is a festival of return. Return to faith. Return to forgiveness. Return, most importantly, to one another.
When takbir rises into the air and families stand shoulder to shoulder in prayer, palm oil stands there too - unseen yet indispensable.
From kampung kitchens where pelita once flickered against wooden walls to city apartments glowing long past midnight. From the familiar shores of Peninsular Malaysia to the distant hills of Borneo. Across the country, the ritual unfolds. Doors open. Plates are passed around. Children wander freely between houses, guided only by laughter and the irresistible aroma of cooking.
We invite family, welcome friends and sit comfortably with neighbours of every race and faith. Doors open, plates are shared and laughter flows easily across verandahs and dining tables.
This is muhibbah - not as a slogan printed on banners, but as a living tradition that must be cherished and sustained. Not as rhetoric, but as remembrance.
Practised quietly, day after day, and felt most deeply in meals shared around the same table - with me, palm oil, simply playing my humble part.
For behind every dish lies a longer story. Palm oil connects smallholders, planters, estate and mill workers, traders, drivers, cooks and families into one long, often underappreciated chain of care.
It reminds us that prosperity is rarely the achievement of one person alone. It is shared - like food, like stories, like forgiveness.
The golden gift we sometimes forget to thank
So this Hari Raya, when you enjoy the rendang, slice open your ketupat, dip your satay into peanut sauce or wipe your fingers after one kuih too many, pause for a moment. Remember me. Not to glorify palm oil, but simply to understand it.
Palm oil still has room for improvement - as do we all. Like all things that truly matter, it continues to evolve and grow.
Yet through seasons both generous and difficult, it has endured - serving faithfully and sustaining millions along the way.
If I were palm oil this Hari Raya, I would greet you gently with this: May your journeys be safe, and your returns unhurried.
May your homes glow with light, laughter and forgiveness. May your tables be full - not merely with food, but with memories, stories and quiet grace.
And may we never forget the small, unspoken things that hold us together - as families, as neighbours, and as a nation softly bound by the spirit of muhibbah.
So from me, palm oil - the quiet companion in many of your kitchens and celebrations - I offer this simple blessing: Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri. Maaf Zahir dan Batin.
Joseph Tek Choon Yee has over 30 years of experience in the plantation industry, with a strong background in oil palm research and development, C-suite leadership and industry advocacy. The views expressed here are the writer’s own.
