In the bustling town of Senawang, just outside Kuala Lumpur, Roslan Sarbaini stitches together not just fabric, but a legacy that stretches back nearly eight decades. At 65, Roslan is a master craftsman of the songkok, the traditional Malay headwear synonymous with cultural identity and festive occasions like Hari Raya. As the holy month of Ramadan approaches, his small shop hums with activity, fulfilling orders for the iconic black songkok and the increasingly popular tarbus, a fez-like variant, from customers as far afield as Sabah and Sarawak.
Roslan’s hands, seasoned by decades of meticulous work, craft up to 10 songkok a day during the peak season. This year, orders began pouring in two months before Ramadan, a testament to the enduring appeal of his family brand, “Sarbaini Jamil.” Named after his late father, who started the business in a pre-war shophouse along Jalan Yam Tuan after migrating from Bukit Tinggi, Sumatra, the brand has become a byword for quality and tradition. “I inherited not just the skills but the responsibility to preserve our good name,” Roslan says, his voice carrying the weight of generational pride.
What sets Roslan’s work apart is not just craftsmanship but adaptability. While the classic black songkok remains a staple for Hari Raya—a festival marking the end of Ramadan—modern tastes have ushered in demand for diverse styles. The tarbus, with its distinct cylindrical shape, and the luxurious songkok baldu crown, made from high-quality velvet imported from Germany, Japan, and South Korea, are gaining traction. Among younger customers, songkok made from unconventional materials like jeans and corduroy are a hit, blending tradition with contemporary flair. Foreign tourists, meanwhile, often seek out the ornate songkok songket and songkok batik, drawn by their intricate designs. 
Roslan’s clientele is as varied as his designs. Royalty, politicians, and artistes have all donned his creations, some even commissioning bespoke pieces to set trends. One artiste requested a unique tarbus, while a customer from Sabah ordered an unusually tall songkok lipat, measuring 35.5cm—far exceeding the typical height of 8 to 15cm. “We’re happy to oblige as long as we can provide a quality product,” Roslan notes with a smile. Even non-Muslim businessmen have placed orders, reflecting the songkok’s broad cultural resonance beyond religious boundaries.
The business thrives on word-of-mouth, a strategy Roslan prefers over modern marketing. “I’m too old for social media,” he admits candidly, though he does accept orders via WhatsApp. The trust of satisfied customers, who value the fine, artistic hand-stitching, keeps the orders coming. During the Hari Raya rush, his wife, Lindawati Syamsir Jamil, 60, joins him in the workshop, and their three children—despite pursuing other careers—step in when the workload becomes overwhelming. It’s a family effort, much like the craft itself, rooted in heritage and community.
The story of the Sarbaini family mirrors the broader narrative of Malaysian craftsmanship, where tradition persists amid modernity. Songkok-making, an art form passed down through generations, is more than a trade; it’s a cultural touchstone. Roslan’s father, Sarbaini Jamil, began honing his skills after arriving in Malaysia post-World War II, taking over his ailing uncle’s shop after the Japanese occupation in 1945. Just three months later, his uncle passed away, leaving Sarbaini to master the craft on his own. Today, Roslan carries forward that resilience, ensuring each piece reflects not just skill but history.
For many Malaysians, the songkok is a symbol of identity, worn during religious and formal occasions. Its evolution—from the standard black design to vibrant, modern iterations—parallels the country’s own journey of balancing heritage with innovation. In Roslan’s shop, one sees this duality: stacks of classic songkok sit alongside experimental designs, each stitch a bridge between past and present.
As Hari Raya nears, Roslan’s workload will only intensify, but there’s a quiet satisfaction in his craft. “It’s hectic, but it’s what we do,” he says, holding up a tarbus with evident pride. In Senawang, where the hum of sewing machines blends with the anticipation of festivity, Roslan Sarbaini isn’t just making headwear—he’s weaving the fabric of Malaysian tradition, one songkok at a time.
