ONCE, when I wore my baju kurung top over a batik sarong, someone asked me, “Why are you dressed like the maid?”
I thought of my mother, my grandmother, my aunties and my grandaunts. They all wore that combination as everyday attire. It was comfortable, practical and familiar. To me, it was the clothing of home, inseparable from my memories of the women who raised me.
And if a maid wore it too, why should that diminish it? There is dignity in her work, just as there is dignity in the clothes we share.
The remark stayed with me. When did an everyday expression of our heritage become something to look down upon?
For centuries, Malay communities across the Nusantara have expressed a sense of belonging through their dress. Much as the sari carries cultural meaning for many who wear it, our busana Melayu carries memories of family, customs and a shared world.
Think of Aceh, Medan, Riau, Langkat, Asahan and Serdang; of Brunei and the Malay Peninsula. Across these places, we encounter familiar forms of dress. The cut, fabric, fastening and way of arranging the kain may differ, but there is a resemblance that allows us to recognise a shared inheritance.
When I speak of busana Melayu, I think of this whole family of attire: Baju Melayu in its Cekak Musang and Teluk Belanga forms, baju kurung, kebaya, baju belah and baju Kedah. I think, too, of the tanjak and the other elements that complete the attire. Each has its own history and character. Together, they give visible expression to a culture connected by language, kinship and custom.
To me, busana Melayu belongs alongside Bahasa Melayu as an expression of identity. We recognise one another through the words we speak and through the clothes we have inherited.
It is a heritage shared by anak raja, bangsawan and rakyat biasa. Fabrics and adornments may distinguish rank, occasion or means. There may be silk, velvet, brocade, songket or simple cotton. Yet the familiar garment belongs across these differences.
My own attachment to the baju kurung is deeply sentimental. Sultan Abu Bakar, my great-great-grandfather, established the Teluk Belanga attire as the official dress of Johor. Wearing it connects me to that family history, but my affection also comes from a lifetime of living in it.
I am among those who still wear hand-sewn baju kurung Teluk Belanga. I wear it to official functions, to less formal occasions and every day at home.
In our tropical heat, I find it wonderfully comfortable. Its loose cut allows air to circulate. It covers my aurat, and its modest form accords with my Islamic faith. It allows me to move comfortably and sit at ease.
It is also versatile. With the appropriate cloth and accessories, its familiar form serves many occasions. It can be regal and elegant. It is sopan, conveying respect for the occasion and for the people we meet.
Sometimes, someone will ask, “Why are you wearing baju kurung asli?”
The question carries a suggestion that the traditional garment is somehow insufficient for a function. I find that puzzling. Why should it need beads or elaborate embroidery before it is considered suitably dressed up?
My preference is to allow the beauty of the cloth, the proportions and the fineness of the sewing to speak.
I remember Toh Puan Norashikin, the wife of Tun Dr Ismail, wearing what I think of as the true baju kurung. Whether in lace, brocade or songket, she remained faithful to its traditional form. In my memory, she wore little else.
I remember Tengku Ampuan Intan Zaharah, during her time as Queen of Malaysia, wearing baju kurung to official functions. Seeing her so beautifully attired left a lasting impression on me. The traditional baju kurung was entirely at home on a Queen.
And I think of Azah Aziz and her daughter, Zeti, in their familiar baju kurung: a tiny kancing at the neckline, a string of pearls and such quiet elegance. That small fastening was enough. I remember how graceful and regal they looked.
Azah Aziz’s work in recording Malay textiles and dress reminds us how much there is to understand and preserve. A garment contains knowledge about the people who made it and the society in which it was worn.
In my own family, that knowledge was part of everyday life.
My mothers wore the baju kurung proudly. My grandmother wore little else. One image I particularly treasure is of her wearing a velvet baju kurung with kain berantai for her coronation. The richness of the cloth and the dignity with which she wore it remain with me.
I wore the traditional baju kurung during my own wedding celebrations, for the khatam ceremony and the istiadat bersiram. I still wear it today.
There is, of course, a place for adornment. Bridal attire may include telepuk, small gold coins sewn onto the garment or delicate kelingkam work. The versions I cherish use these touches with care, allowing the traditional form to remain recognisable.
I remember a time when the baju kurung was what we wore to most functions. Towards the late 1970s, I began to notice more designers and boutiques, and a growing variety of interpretations.
Today, there are modern kurung with linings, shaped silhouettes and puffed sleeves. I understand that each generation brings its own taste. The kebaya, too, has found new expression among Javanese women, while traditional lace and hand-drawn batik continue to have their place.
There is room for creativity. My wish is that the original forms remain familiar and continue to be made and worn.
In the world I grew up in, we understood which attire suited an occasion. The shorter baju Kedah was familiar as comfortable, informal clothing for home and daily life. For formal functions, we wore the flowing lines of the baju kurung labuh or kebaya labuh.
At my age, I wear the baju kurung most of the time. When I visit a kampung, it is what I choose. There is a familiarity in it that connects me with the people I meet. It is part of a way of life we recognise in one another.
This is why I want to encourage its continued wearing. I also want us to preserve the art of making it.
There is knowledge in cutting the fabric, in shaping and joining the pesak and kekek, in making the opening at the neck—the tebuk leher—and in working the delicate tulang belut stitches around it. There is skill in the fine sembat that neatly finishes the sewing, and care in the making and placement of its pockets.
These details require patience, practice and a trained eye. They carry the experience of generations of makers.
If those skills disappear, something precious will be lost, even if garments called baju kurung continue to fill our shops.
Preservation requires us to give those skills a future. We must wear the garments, commission the people who make them and encourage younger generations to learn. A hand-sewn baju kurung sustains the maker’s livelihood and gives that knowledge another opportunity to pass from one pair of hands to another.
I hope we will continue to recognise its beauty without demanding that it be heavily embellished. I hope a woman can wear a simple baju kurung over a batik sarong and feel entirely at ease, proud of the inheritance she carries.
I have worn it as a bride, as a Queen and in the ordinary hours of life at home. Through all those occasions, it has remained familiar, comfortable and deeply mine.
This is our warisan. We must preserve both the garment and the hands that know how to make it.
To me, this is a dying art that we must preserve. Our makers knew how to cut, shape and sew these garments through knowledge handed down across generations. They did not need the West to teach them how to cut cloth, nor a designer’s label to give their work distinction. They understood proportion, comfort, modesty and beauty.
Today, those inherited forms continue to inspire modern designs. When we admire a contemporary kurung, let us also recognise the ingenuity of the makers whose knowledge made it possible. Their names may never have appeared on a label, but their skill lives on in the clothes we wear. That, too, is our warisan.
I wear my baju kurung proudly. It tells of my family, my heritage, where I come from and who I am—a Malay.
Tunku Azizah Aminah Maimunah Iskandariah holds a master’s degree from the International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation (ISTAC), International Islamic University Malaysia and currently a PhD candidate at ISTAC-IIUM.