Love, loss and a little scandal: thespian Faridah Merican tells her story

THERE'S something impishly youthful about Datuk Dr Faridah Merican. Forget the walking stick and the crown of white curls that looks as though it has little interest in being tamed.

The 86-year-old walks in and it's easy to see that age hasn't done much to temper her spirit.

"I'm late," she exclaims matter-of-factly, her expression growing stern. "There's no excuse in being late!" The self-admonishment gives way to mischief almost immediately.

"I blame Joe!" she declares with a laugh, referring to her husband of 37 years, actor and director Joe Hasham.

Her timing, at least when delivering a punchline, is impeccable.

Then again, Faridah has spent decades holding an audience, through a career spanning broadcasting, advertising and the performing arts. She joined Radio and Television Malaysia in the early 1960s and went on to serve on the board of advertising agency Ogilvy & Mather, while pursuing her love of theatre.

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An actress, director and producer, the doyenne of Malaysian performing arts co-founded The Actors Studio with her husband in 1989 and later helped establish the Kuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre (klpac).

Along the way, she has remained one of the arts' most passionate advocates, speaking up for performers and building the spaces and opportunities that allow them to flourish.

Now, in her memoir, Me, Mamak, that familiar voice takes a more personal turn. Faridah returns to her beginnings as a kampung girl in Ayer Itam, Penang, tracing the experiences that carried her into teaching, radio and television, and onto the stage as an actress, producer and director. Woven through these many roles is the story of the woman who was finding her own voice while helping shape Malaysia's cultural life.

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Looking back on that life soon brings our conversation to the future of the arts she has spent so many years nurturing. Here, Faridah's playfulness gives way to frustration.

"The thing is this, Elena. Unfortunately, the arts haven't been growing in the way they should. It's almost stagnant," she says, carefully qualifying her criticism. "I'm not saying it's stagnant. I'm saying it's almost stagnant."

There are people who want to create, teach and perform, but making a living from that work remains difficult. Faridah believes stronger government support would give more practitioners the means to keep going and the confidence to undertake new work.

Sighing, she says: "We must have the money. We ask for money all the time."

What they receive, she shares, comes in "small doses". She wants funding that reflects the work involved in sustaining an arts community, from developing productions to training the people who will eventually take them forward.

For her and Joe, the financial struggle has lasted so long that she describes becoming almost numb to it. They've frequently operated at a loss, finding ways to carry on even when the figures offer little encouragement.

"We have to do it. So, we find our way of doing it."

People ask why she continues. Her answer returns to the purpose she and Joe have held onto since starting The Actors Studio, particularly their commitment to teaching. Children come to their programmes from as young as 4, taking their first steps into a world that has occupied so much of her life.

"From the time when Joe and I started The Actors Studio, we've been training and educating all the while," she says.

TELLING A STORY

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With so much of her life spent keeping the arts going, it's perhaps unsurprising that friends had long urged Faridah to write it all down. Persuading her to agree was one thing. Getting her to sit down and begin took considerably longer.

Years passed before that promise became a book. During the Covid-19 pandemic, she finally turned to Joe and suggested they get started. The process was intimate and straightforward; built around something they'd been doing for years: talking to each other.

Their method, she explains, was "simply me telling my story to Joe". He knew much of it, of course, although even a husband of so many years could hardly be expected to know everything.

Nor should readers expect to, she makes clear. There's plenty that she has chosen to leave out.

"Hello, my life is very long," the 86-year-old insists, chuckling. "If I were to put everything, all the dirt will come out!"

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The mischief is back, although beneath it is a firmly drawn boundary. Faridah is happy to share her memories, but she believes some experiences belong to her alone. Writing a memoir hasn't changed that.

"Your life is kind of rather precious and secret, and you must keep the precious part of your life intact," she says.

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It's a distinction she feels entitled to make after a lifetime in public. She has been many things beyond the familiar figure on stage, including a single mother for 20 years. The book opens a door into that life, while leaving her free to decide how far to let us in.

She's cheerfully matter-of-fact about the book's length, too.

"If I was more hardworking, I could have done a thicker book, perhaps. But I think this is enough for the first one."

The first one? She's open to the possibility of another — should the right moment come. For now, she's content with what she has shared.

"It's not the length. It's what you put into it," she says blithely.

After so many years bringing stories to audiences, she approaches her own with the same pleasure in the telling. Says Faridah: "I'm not a literary kind of a person, but I do like to tell stories."

FRIENDS REMEMBERED

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Some of the memoir's most absorbing passages offer glimpses into the lives of people Faridah knew well. I mention one involving two old friends, Datuk Syed Alwi Syed Hassan and Datuk Usman Awang, my interest in literary history becoming exceptionally keen.

She remembers both with affection. Syed Alwi was the pioneering playwright and director behind Tok Perak and Alang Rentak Seribu, while Usman, the beloved 'People's Poet', became a National Laureate in 1983.

Her memories of their friendship also bring us to writer and playwright Faridah Fung Chui Lin, who was married to Syed Alwi and later to Usman.

In Faridah's account, the circumstances surrounding these relationships caused a rift between the two men, eventually bringing their friendship to an end. "That was a bit of dirt, right?" she says, eyes twinkling.

I assure her that this reader appreciated her generosity.

She admits to some guilt about including it, mindful of Syed Alwi's family. He'd been a close friend and an important influence on her early acting career, although his manner as a director could test that friendship.

She recalls: "I took it in my stride. I didn't make an enemy out of him."

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What she regrets is not knowing of his death when it happened in 2008. She wishes these old friends could "live on and on", remembering their contribution and the theatre community they built across racial boundaries.

That same spirit makes Sahabatku, Usman's poem for his friend and physician, Dr MK Rajakumar, such a moving inclusion in her memoir.

"Best poem he ever, ever wrote," she declares.

Rajakumar listens to the poet's ailing heart. Usman, in turn, hears in his friend's heartbeat the hopes they shared for a fairer Malaysia. Against the divisions of race is this tender, ordinary act of one person caring for another.

There's romantic tenderness too in Kekasih, which Faridah recalls as Usman's poem for Chui Lin. Knowing who inspired it certainly adds to the fascination.

Yet as Faridah talks, these famous names become people she knew, quarrelled with, loved and now misses. The stories are delicious; the loss is hers.

THE TRUTH OF ME

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That candour extends to the more painful parts of her own life. When I ask what she hopes readers will understand, Faridah answers plainly: "This book is the truth of me and what I'm about."

She writes about her first marriage to Leslie and their son, Feroz, who was born with a cleft lip and cleft palate. She recalls that Leslie couldn't accept their child's condition, something she says contributed to the breakdown of their marriage. It was she who took Feroz for corrective surgery.

Faridah also remembers Leslie's good qualities and stresses that her intention was never to rubbish him. These experiences were part of her life, and she felt they belonged in her story.

Her own relationship with Feroz wasn't easy either. She speaks frankly about its difficulties, before turning to the friends who remained close to him throughout his life.

They were boys together, playing cricket and forming friendships that lasted into adulthood.

Since Feroz's death in 2012, they've continued to mark his birthday and the anniversary of his passing, gathering for drinks in his memory.

"They just never, ever forget," she says quietly.

LOVE OF HER LIFE

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The title, Me, Mamak, carries the same directness as the woman telling the story.

"I am Mamak!" she asserts, adding: "I'm of Indian descent."

When I remark on how handsome her father was, she responds with "Was he?" before recalling something her mother used to tell her. "I don't think it's in the book, but my mother used to say, 'You'll never be able to find a husband as good-looking as your father!'"

I suggest that Joe has done rather well for himself in that department.

"No, no, no. Not the same!" she insists.

Whatever the family verdict on handsome men, Faridah's account of falling for Joe leaves little doubt about his appeal. She devotes a special chapter to him and his courtship, beginning with a professional introduction after a client recommended his company.

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Eventually, they went for dinner where the food faced some serious competition. "We couldn't eat a morsel because we were looking at each other's eyes," she recalls, before sharing that Joe courted her for two years.

She remembers his determination with gratitude. "He was persistent. Thank God!" she exclaims, smiling.

THE STORY CONTINUES

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After looking back on love, work and the life she and Joe have built, I wonder what else Faridah might have wished for herself. Her answer is unexpectedly simple.

"If I live my life all over again, I want to be able to sing, dance and play the piano," she reveals wistfully.

She took up the piano at the age of 80, although she confesses that she isn't very good at it.

It's an endearing admission from a lifelong mentor who, with Joe, is still helping young performers find their voices.

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That instinct to nurture extends to animals, too. In her memoir, she writes that, if she had the money, she'd buy a large piece of land and build an animal shelter.

"If I wasn't so heavily involved in the performing arts, I would devote myself entirely to their well-being," she confides.

She already has 10 cats, which suggests their interests are already quite well represented. Then she looks at me, brushing impatiently at an imaginary stray hair.

"Do I have cat fur on my face?" she asks suddenly.

I laugh, and there's that mischief again. We have talked about love, loss and the exhausting business of keeping theatre alive, and she can still catch me off guard.

It's her voice that stays with me, full of mischief one moment and fierce conviction the next. She still has stories to tell, young lives to encourage and a cause she refuses to give up on.

Faridah has plenty left to say, and I find myself hoping we'll hear her say it for many years yet.