Every year without fail, Chinese New Year arrives with something else alongside the pineapple tarts and reunion dinners: complaints. The awkward relatives, the intrusive questions, the ang pow obligations, the packed restaurants. It has become something of a national pastime to vent about the festive season on social media almost as enthusiastically as we celebrate it.
But perhaps what lies beneath all that venting is not a dislike of Chinese New Year itself. Perhaps it is the quiet feeling that something about the way we celebrate has stopped feeling meaningful.
My grandma and her sisters think so too. They just frame it differently.
Nenek Mariam
My grandma, Nenek Mariam, still remembers the smell of rendang drifting through Pulau Brani before dawn. “When you wake up, you already knew it was a special day,” the 82-year-old said, her eyes lighting up as she spoke about Hari Raya celebrations on the island where she grew up.
Along with her sisters, Nenek Siti, 79, and Nenek Aminah, 65, Nenek Mariam spent her childhood and early adulthood on Pulau Brani, an island with a kampung that no longer exists in the way they remember it.
Pulau Brani, which means “island of the brave” in Malay, was once the hotspot of where the Orang Laut lived. My grandma’s dad was a descendant of the Orang Laut. Kampung life on Pulau Brani began to disappear in the late 1960s and had ended by the 1970s, when residents were resettled as part of Singapore’s redevelopment plans.
Families were relocated to public housing estates across the mainland, including Telok Blangah and Queenstown. Although dispersed, former neighbours stayed connected through visits during Hari Raya, weddings and family gatherings. Today, it is rare for some to continue to meet for small reunions, bound by shared memories of an island kampung that exists now only in recollection.
Through their stories, a picture emerges of celebrations rooted in community, very different from how festivities are marked today.
A Kampung that Celebrated Together
In Pulau Brani, celebrations were never private affairs.
Nenek Siti remembers Nenek Mariam’s wedding as a day that felt like the entire island had woken up early just for her older sister to finally tie the knot. “If one house had a wedding, the whole island knew,” she said. “And the whole island helped.”
By mid-morning, neighbours were arriving with sacks of rice, trays of kuih wrapped in banana leaves and bundles of firewood. Women sat in circles chopping onions and grinding spices, the sharp smell of chilli and turmeric hanging in the air. Children were sent running between houses with cups, plates and messages.
“We all had our jobs,” Nenek Aminah recalled as she was one of the kids. “Even the children.”
Even as it was raining on Nenek Mariam’s special day, the kompang drums still went on. Canvas sheets sagged, the ground turned soft and one cooking fire went out, sending smoke into the air. When a pot of chicken curry tipped into the sand, there was a moment of silence before laughter broke out.
“There was no stress,” Nenek Siti said. “Even when something went wrong, we worked more tightly together to resolve it.”
By nightfall, oil lamps lit the pathways when the rain had eased. Guests moved from house to house without invitations, eating curry, rice and sambal goreng wherever there was space to sit. Children ran past with sparklers, their feet wet and muddy. “You didn’t need to invite people,” Nenek Mariam said. “If you lived on Pulau Brani, you were already invited.”
In the end what remains clearest in their memories is not the ceremony itself, but the sound and the feeling of it. The steady beat of the drums, the overlapping voices and the sense that the celebration belonged to everyone.
How Celebrations Have Changed
Today, the grandmothers say, celebrations feel very different.
“Now everything is planned, timed, and booked,” Nenek Siti observed. “Before, it just flowed.”
Modern celebrations often take place in halls or restaurants, with food prepared by caterers and guests arriving for a short window of time. Invitations now arrive through messages, and greetings are sent digitally, compared to before when one person or a group of people would be in charge of spreading the word.
“People come, eat, take photos, and leave,” said Nenek Aminah. “Before, people stayed.”
“Now, even when people sit together, they look at their phones most of the time,” Nenek Mariam said softly. “Before, we looked at each other.”
It is a pattern that feels familiar. At the last Hari Raya gathering, many of the people there were either taking OOTDs or filming TikToks. Many moments became photo ops. The stark difference between the old and the young is that the older generation would always be the one to shed the most tears.
It is not hard to see why. Despite everyone now being connected on social media, the physical closeness of a small village meant that neighbours could visit each other anytime within walking distance, even after marriage. Unlike our high rise concrete neighbourhoods today.
“We don’t have simplicity nor the strength in our bodies anymore to travel from one place to another,” Nenek Aminah said. “Our legs grow sore if we take public transport, and getting a Grab is even more troublesome for us.”
“We sometimes wonder if either of us is still alive, waiting for each other’s phone call everyday. Just seeing each other at annual gatherings provides us immense relief and happiness. That’s why we cry,” Nenek Siti said, trying to hold back tears as she looked at her sisters.
What Remains Important
Despite these differences, the grandmothers do not criticise the younger generations. They understand that life today is faster and more demanding.
“But celebrations should still bring people closer,” Nenek Aminah said. “That should not change.”
For Nenek Mariam, Nenek Siti, and Nenek Aminah, what they hope to pass down is clear: the sense of togetherness, generosity, and the shared joy that made Pulau Brani celebrations unforgettable.
“Even if life is busier now, taking the time to cook together, visit neighbours, or include everyone in small ways keeps the spirit alive,” Nenek Aminah said.
This Chinese New Year, as you sit across the table from the people you love, it is worth asking: are you really there with them? The grandmothers of Pulau Brani are not asking for the kampung back. They are asking for something simpler. Look up. Stay a little longer. Let the celebration belong to everyone again.
Focus on connection, not perfection.
What do you enjoy most about celebrations?
Feature Image: Shutterstock
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