“你知道为什么前面那些位子要空著吗？”在一场普度晚宴上，坐在我身旁的阿姨指著舞台前几张空著的椅子问我。我看了看椅子，再看看她。当时我有两个选择：假装自己知道——很不幸地说，这可是从政后相当实用的一项技能；或者老实承认。“不知道。”阿姨的脸色立刻变了：“你是槟城人，你不知道咩？”哎哟！世上很少有什么事情，会比被一位槟城阿姨质疑“槟城人资格”更加难受。于是我投降了：“好啦，阿姨，你教我。”
她真的开始教我，告诉我为什么那些座位要空著、是留给谁的，也解释普度的一些习俗。一道问题接著一道问题，我就在晚宴席间上了一堂非常非正式的“中元节速成课”。有趣的是，这些场景其实一点都不陌生。我在槟城长大，普度从小就在我的生活周围：巨大的纸扎、祭品、歌台、表演、香火，还有摆到街坊邻里间的宴席。中元节来了，即使你未必说得清楚到底发生了什么，你也一定感受得到——槟城的普度季节到了。
而我，偏偏就是那个“感受得到，却说不清楚”的人。那天晚上，我突然意识到一件有点尴尬的事情：我几十年来一直熟悉普度，却从来没有真正了解它。看见一种文化，和真正理解一种文化，是两回事。政治反而改变了这一点。当我成为人民代议士之后，我不再只是开车经过这些庆典，而是开始被邀请参与其中。我也发现，成为一名民选代表，其中一个意想不到的“福利”，就是给自己的家乡文化来一场速成补课。
于是，我开始问问题：为什么要这样做？这个代表什么？那个人物是谁？当然，在槟城的宴会上，还有一个非常重要的问题——什么时候开饭？慢慢地，我学得越来越多，但也开始注意到一些比仪式本身更重要的东西——我看见了人。那些忙进忙出的阿姨叔叔，确保每个人都有位子；那些花了好几个星期筹备活动的商家和工作人员；那些为了桌子、表演、募款、嘉宾有没有抵达而忙得团团转的理事会成员。而在这一切之中，总有一个人还会担心：“瑟丽娜吃什么？”
这也是我每次参加普度宴会时，觉得特别温暖、特别好笑的一部分。桌上摆满了中式宴席：鱼、虾、鸡、蔬菜、汤，一道接一道上桌，而我的“专属餐点”通常是肯德鸡（KFC）。一位阿姨会非常骄傲地把它递给我，然后告诉我两个字：“Halal！”每一次，我都是真心感动。因为有人记得，有人为我特别安排了食物，也许甚至有人必须放下手上的工作，特地出去寻找清真食物，因为他们知道我会来。
所以，是的，我总是很开心地吃我的KFC。不过，参加了这么多年的华人宴席，我觉得我们之间的关系已经发展到一个阶段，是时候提出一个小小的要求了：“阿姨……下次可以不要KFC吗？”我曾经这样说过一次，阿姨看著我，我也看著她，然后两个人一起笑了出来。我想，我大概已经进入某种“马来西亚式融合”的阶段——至少，我已经有资格开始跟阿姨谈菜单了。
也正因为如此，当槟城把中元普度列为州级文化遗产时，我是真的感到高兴，因为它值得被保存，也值得被肯定。我们谈到文化遗产时，往往第一时间想到的是建筑：老店屋、会馆、宗祠、庙宇、历史建筑。但槟城的文化遗产，并不只是那些可以被拍照、被记录下来的建筑物。文化遗产也存在于人们的日常生活中——一代一代传承下来的传统、让整个社区发生变化的节庆、持续组织活动的义工，还有那些一听、一闻、一看，就会让你马上知道：“对，这就是槟城。”
而且，你不需要亲自参与某项宗教仪式，才能珍惜和保护这项传统。我并不参与普度的宗教仪式，但我可以理解它的历史，可以欣赏围绕著普度形成的社区关系，可以和大家坐在一起，问一些可能有点傻的问题，学一些自己过去不知道的东西，然后一边吃著我的“特别餐”，看著其他人享用桌上的主菜。这当中有一种非常“马来西亚”的感觉。
我们经常谈论这个国家的“包容”与“容忍”。老实说，我一直不太喜欢“容忍”这个词，因为“容忍”听起来就像你觉得邻居家的卡拉OK很吵，但最后决定还是不要报警。槟城最好的地方，其实远远超过“容忍”。我们会慢慢熟悉彼此的文化，不是每一次都完美，也不是每一次都能够深入理解，有时候，我们也会弄错。有时候，甚至要等到我四十多岁、已经从政了，才终于开口问一个从小看到大的传统，到底是什么意思。但我们愿意出现，愿意坐下来，愿意一起吃饭，愿意提问，也愿意笑自己。然后慢慢地，原本属于“别人”的传统，就不再只是“别人的传统”，而会变成我们共同生活的这片土地的一部分，成为我们对“家”的记忆。
也许，这就是为什么中元普度被列为槟城州文化遗产，对我来说具有特别的意义。这项肯定并不只是属于某一个社区，而是在告诉我们：普度也是槟城故事的一部分，而槟城的故事，属于我们所有人。
所以，今年的中元节期间，你可能还会在某一场普度活动上看到我。我应该还是会继续问问题，也应该还是会学到一些其实早就应该知道的事情，而在某个地方，也一定会有另一位阿姨，准备好教我一些新的东西。这一次，当她再问我：“你是槟城人，你不知道咩？”我大概只会回答她：“所以我才问你啊，阿姨。”
瑟丽娜《一个槟城女孩眼中的普度》原文： Phor Thor Through the Eyes of a Penang Girl
“You know who we are leaving those seats for or not?”
The aunty sitting beside me at a Phor Thor dinner pointed towards the empty chairs in front of the stage.
I looked. Then I looked at her.
I had two choices.
Pretend I knew — a skill that, unfortunately, is quite useful in politics — or admit the truth.
“No.”
Her face changed immediately.
“You Penang lang, you don't know ah?”
Aiyo.
There are few things more devastating than being questioned about your Penang credentials by a Penang aunty. So I surrendered.
“Okay, Aunty. You teach me.”
And she did.
She explained why those seats were left empty, who they were meant for, and some of the customs surrounding Phor Thor. One question became another, and before long I was getting a very informal lesson in the Hungry Ghost Festival in the middle of dinner. The funny thing is, none of this was new to me.
I grew up in Penang. Phor Thor had always been there. The giant effigies. The offerings. The stages. The performances. The incense. The dinners spilling into neighbourhoods.
You knew when the Hungry Ghost Festival had arrived even if you couldn't explain what was actually going on.
And I certainly couldn't.
That evening reminded me of something slightly embarrassing: I had spent decades being familiar with Phor Thor without actually knowing very much about it.
There is a big difference between seeing someone's culture and understanding it.
Apparently, all I needed was one aunty to finally point that out. Politics changed that.
Suddenly I wasn't just driving past these celebrations.
I was being invited into them.
And I discovered that one of the unexpected parts of being an elected representative is getting a crash course in your own hometown.
I started asking questions.
Why do you do this?
What does this mean?
Who is that figure?
And, equally important at a Penang dinner, when are we eating?
Over time, I learnt more.
But I also began noticing something beyond the rituals.
I noticed the people.
The aunties and uncles running around making sure everyone had a seat. The traders who had spent weeks organising the event. The committee members worrying about tables, performances, donations and whether the VIP had arrived.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, someone is also worrying: “What will Syerleena eat?”
This is another part of Phor Thor dinners that always makes me smile. Across the table will be the full Chinese dinner spread. Fish. Prawns. Chicken. Vegetables. Soup. Plates arriving faster than anyone can finish them.
And then there is my food.
KFC.
Usually presented to me by an aunty with great pride: “Halal!”
I am always genuinely touched by this. Someone remembered. Someone made an extra arrangement. Someone probably had to leave everything they were doing and go hunting for halal food because they knew I was coming.
So yes, I eat my KFC happily.
Although after enough Chinese dinners over the years, I think our relationship has reached the stage where I can humbly make one small request.
“Aunty……next time can I have something other than KFC?”
I said this once and the aunty looked at me. I looked at her. Then we both burst out laughing. I think I have now reached the stage of Malaysian integration where I am comfortable enough to negotiate the menu.
This is why I was genuinely delighted when Penang recognised the Hungry Ghost Festival as state heritage.
It deserves to be.
Because when we talk about heritage, our minds often go immediately to buildings. Old shophouses. Clan houses. Temples. Architecture.
But Penang's heritage isn't only what we can photograph.
It is also what people do. It is the traditions passed from one generation to another. The festivals that transform neighbourhoods. The volunteers who continue organising them. The sounds, smells, performances, food and rituals that tell you immediately:
Yes, you are in Penang.
And you don't have to personally practise a tradition to feel protective of it.
That, I think, is something Penangites understand instinctively.
I don't participate in the religious rituals of Phor Thor.
But I can appreciate its history.
I can enjoy the community around it.
I can sit with people, ask slightly silly questions, learn something new and eat my special meal while everyone else attacks the main dishes.
There is something wonderfully Malaysian about that arrangement.
We talk endlessly about tolerance in this country, though, I’ve never particularly liked that word. To “tolerate” someone sounds like they are an annoying neighbour whose karaoke you have decided not to report to the police.
Penang, at its best, goes further than tolerance.
We become familiar with one another. Not perfectly. Not always deeply.
Sometimes we get things wrong.
Sometimes it takes me four decades and a career in politics to finally ask what something I've seen since childhood actually means.
But we show up.
We sit down.
We eat.
We ask questions.
We laugh at ourselves.
And slowly, somebody else's tradition stops feeling like “somebody else's”.
It becomes part of the landscape of home.
Perhaps that is why the recognition of Phor Thor as Penang state heritage means something to me. It says that this tradition isn't merely being acknowledged for one community. It is being recognised as part of Penang's story. And Penang's story belongs to all of us.
So yes, during this Hungry Ghost Festival season, you may find me at another Phor Thor.
I'll still be asking questions.
I'll still probably learn something I should have learnt years ago.
And somewhere, there will probably be another aunty ready to teach me something.
And this time, when she says: “You Penang lang, you don't know ah?”
I can only answer: “That's why I'm asking, Aunty.”
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