The Last Songkok Maker in Penang

For generations, the songkok has been part of everyday and ceremonial life for Muslim men in Malaysia. Yet the people who make these distinctive velvet caps by hand are disappearing. In a tiny workshop in George Town, Haja Mohideen Mohamed Shariff continues the craft he learned from his father – one careful measurement, cardboard frame and line of stitching at a time.

I had seen the caps everywhere in Malaysia and Indonesia: at mosques, ceremonies and family gatherings, usually black, always neat and sitting with an authority few items of headwear manage to achieve. What I had not done was learn their name. It took a visit to Penang – and a walk through the workshops of its remaining artisans – for me to discover that the cap was called a songkok.

Someone told me about Haja Mohideen Mohamed Shariff, a traditional songkok maker in George Town. One day, while wandering through Little India, I found his tiny shop beside the Nagore Shrine. It was not difficult to identify: songkok occupied almost every available surface, in various stages of becoming respectable.

Mr Haja was known as Penang’s last maker of handmade songkok. A second-generation artisan, he had inherited both the skill and the business from his father. His apprenticeship began early. He made his first songkok at the age of twelve – an age when many children are still struggling to keep their own caps from getting lost.

The semi-open workshop was crowded with materials, unfinished caps and boxes awaiting delivery. At its centre sat Mr Haja, thick spectacles balanced on his nose, assembling the pieces on an old Singer sewing machine. There was little wasted movement. Decades of practice had reduced each task to a sequence his hands seemed to remember without consultation.

A songkok begins with an inner frame made from layers of newspaper and cardboard. An oval piece forms the top, while a rectangular piece is shaped into the sides. The frame is lined with satin for comfort and then covered with velvet. Once the transformation is complete, yesterday’s newspaper receives an unexpected promotion – from reading material to formal headwear.

Mr Haja used velvet for all his songkok because it was attractive and durable. Most customers preferred black, the traditional and most versatile choice. Police and military orders introduced brown and green into the workshop, while gold and silver trimmings were reserved for royalty. Even in the world of caps, it seems, rank has its accessories.

Although many customers came from Penang, Mr Haja also supplied handmade songkok to Melaka, Kuala Lumpur and Singapore. Depending on the orders, he could complete between five and ten caps a day, each requiring one or two hours of work. Speed mattered, but never at the expense of fit: measurements had to be exact, the frame carefully cut, and every seam properly aligned.

The busiest period began in the weeks before Ramadan, as customers prepared for Hari Raya Aidilfitri, the festival marking the end of the fasting month. Demand also rose around Maulidur Rasul, the observance of the Prophet Muhammad’s birthday. To finish the orders, Mr Haja sometimes worked beyond midnight. A handmade cap may look simple; the working hours behind it are rather less so.

He was justifiably proud of his work. He chose the materials himself and paid close attention to measuring, cutting and stitching. His songkok remained reasonably priced, but factory-made caps presented relentless competition. Produced quickly and in bulk, they cost less, even if they could not offer the same workmanship, durability or individual fit.

The songkok itself is in no danger of disappearing from Malaysia. The handmade version is another matter.

As more buyers choose ready-made caps, fewer craftspeople can earn a living by making them individually. The tradition survives not because it lacks admirers, but because a small number of artisans are still willing to do the slow, exacting work admiration alone cannot replace.

There was, however, a reason for cautious optimism in Mr Haja’s crowded shop. His son-in-law had taken an interest in the craft and was helping him with the work. Surrounded by cardboard frames, velvet offcuts and the steady rhythm of the old Singer machine, the next generation was already learning. For a tradition built to fit one head at a time, that seemed an appropriately modest – and hopeful – beginning.