He is no longer him, today. At ten, he saw a chicken beheaded in his backyard, he too, an accomplice. He roamed his village, sometimes barefoot, wading through streams, backyards of his neighbors’ houses where young men were high, smoking ganja. He once saw a group of men in red headbands with Arabic words on them, ready to march to the capital city to slaughter many. He saw men in a trance, munching on broke glasses and hibiscus petals, high on Javanese trance-dance music, turning into horses. This is his story, told in the language of the Sixties. Of Beat poetry. Of rap, joyfully. A story of a boy in a Malay village whose memory of his grandma's gangsta chicken curry and the Hippie Sixties saved him from being another extremist out to destroy humanity. A story of separation and alienation, of the joys and pains of growing up in a world where he could have been dead—high on drugs and religious extremities if not for his curiosities and his love for philosophy in the songs that set him free!