Every year, without fail, Hari Raya arrives with three things: kuih raya that mysteriously finishes itself, family group chats that suddenly become very active, and—most importantly—new Raya songs. And every year, without fail, we argue about them. Scroll through social media anytime during Ramadan and Syawal and you’ll see the same comments recycled like ketupat leaves:
“Raya songs nowadays got no soul”
“Back then was better”
“This doesn’t reflect the real spirit of Hari Raya”.
The comment section becomes less Aidilfitri and more Aidilfitnah, and somehow we do this every year as if it’s a brand-new debate.
At the centre of this annual discourse is always a comparison between the so-called “golden era” of Raya songs and what we’re getting today. When people talk about the good old days, they’ll name-drop legends like Aishah, Sudirman, and Siti Nurhaliza—artists whose Raya songs were poetic, reflective, and emotionally loaded. Songs that reminded us about forgiveness, longing, balik kampung journeys, and why Raya mattered beyond the outfit and the Instagram photo. The kind of songs that could make you feel sentimental even if you were just sitting in traffic, stuck somewhere between home and nowhere.
Fast forward to today, and suddenly the vibe has shifted. We now have playful, meme-able tracks like Lala Raya by Agy or Raya 20 Simpang, and instead of gentle nostalgia, the internet collectively brings out the pitchforks.
The criticism is immediate: “This doesn’t represent Raya".
The verdict: “Embarrassing”.
The sentence dragged across Twitter, TikTok, and WhatsApp family groups.
But here’s the thing—since when did Hari Raya only have one acceptable meaning?
Yes, older Raya songs were poetic. Yes, many of them carried spiritual and emotional weight. But that doesn’t automatically make them the only valid interpretation of Hari Raya. Raya is not a museum exhibit to be preserved behind glass. It is lived, experienced, reinterpreted, and reshaped by each generation. For some people, Raya is about repentance and spirituality. For others, it’s about reunion, laughter, chaos, food, and surviving three open houses in one day. Some experience joy. Others experience grief. Some feel closeness. Others feel awkwardness. All of that is Raya.
So when someone creates a Raya song that leans more playful, satirical, or light-hearted, does that automatically make it “wrong”? Or does it simply mean it doesn’t reflect your Raya? That distinction matters more than we often acknowledge.
One detail that often gets conveniently ignored in these debates is context. In Agy’s case, his Raya song was self-funded. No government grants. No public funds. No taxpayers’ money. Just personal resources, personal risk, and personal expression—and that matters. When someone self-funds their work, they are not obligated to represent anyone but themselves. They are not a cultural ambassador by default. They are an artist, sharing their own interpretation of what Raya means to them.
The internet, for better or worse, is an open playground for self-expression. That’s where creativity thrives—through trial and error, through cringe moments, and yes, sometimes outright failures. But without that freedom, we don’t evolve. We stagnate. If every artist was pressured to conform to one “approved” Raya template, we’d still be stuck remaking the same song every year with different singers. Nostalgic, sure. Exciting? Not really.
Of course, this is usually the point where the familiar concern appears in the comment section:
“But what if other races misunderstand?”
What if non-Malays think this is what Raya is about?
It’s a valid concern, but it’s also a misplaced responsibility. Educating others about Hari Raya is not the sole job of one artist or one song. It’s a collective responsibility—and honestly, an individual one too. If someone’s entire understanding of Raya comes from one TikTok song, then the issue isn’t the song. It’s the lack of broader exposure and conversation. Representation is not a solo job. It’s a community effort.
Instead of expecting every Malay artist to carry the weight of cultural education on their shoulders, maybe we should ask ourselves what we are personally doing to explain Raya to others. Because shouting at artists online isn’t education. It’s just noise.
And this is where things start to get uncomfortable. We Malays love to say we value adab, kindness, and community, but the way we sometimes treat our own artists tells a different story. The energy spent trashing, mocking, and belittling Raya songs could have been channelled into something far more productive. If you don’t like a song, that’s fine—taste is subjective. But there’s a difference between saying, “This isn’t for me,” and declaring, “This is an insult to Raya.” One is an opinion. The other is a moral judgement. And when moral judgement becomes our default response, we stop being a community and start acting like cultural gatekeepers. Ironically, that behaviour reflects far more poorly on us than any silly Raya song ever could.
Here’s a radical idea: instead of spending hours trashing songs we don’t like, why not spend that time creating alternatives? Write. Sing. Produce. Share poetry. Make videos. Tell stories. Offer different perspectives on Raya. Culture doesn’t move forward through complaints—it moves forward through contribution. If we truly believe certain Raya songs miss the mark, the solution isn’t cancellation. It’s addition. More voices. More interpretations. More representations of what Raya could be. Because the moment we stop allowing experimentation, we kill creativity, and once creativity dies, tradition becomes hollow—performed out of obligation rather than meaning.
At its core, Hari Raya is often described as a time of forgiveness. But forgiveness doesn’t always mean blind acceptance. Sometimes, forgiveness looks like tolerance. It means acknowledging mistakes, choosing not to hold onto anger, and then moving forward with guidance—not humiliation. There’s a Malay word we love to forget online: tegur. To tegur is to correct, yes—but with care. With encouragement. With the intention of helping someone grow, not tearing them down. This is, in my opinion, how we can grow as a community.
This idea is beautifully captured in last year’s Raya song Serumpun by Mimi Fly, which speaks about unity, not uniformity or conformity —about being different, yet rooted in the same soil. Serumpun. Unity doesn’t mean we all agree. It means recognising that despite differing ideals, we ultimately want the same thing: peace, happiness, and harmony with our families and one another.
So perhaps the real question isn’t whether modern Raya songs reflect the “true” spirit of Hari Raya. Maybe the real question is whether our reactions reflect it. If Raya is about forgiveness, compassion, and unity, then how we respond to art we dislike matters just as much as the art itself. We can disagree without destroying. We can critique without humiliating. We can guide without gatekeeping. And maybe—just maybe—if we spent less time scolding and more time understanding, Raya would feel a little more like Raya again. Not because the songs changed, but because we did.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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