For the past six decades, Hajar Agil has seen a steady stream of people almost every day, often from morning to late evening. Some come to her current home in Bedok; other times, she travels around Singapore to see them.
Hajar is a massage therapist, and she has one goal in mind – to “fix” her clients with her “magic hands”, as her granddaughter Farhanah Khailani describes them.
Now in her seventies, Hajar is very much sought after by clients, who come to her through word of mouth, from neighbours, friends, friends of friends, and extended relatives.
But Hajar doesn’t work alone. Helping her is her entire family: Four generations of massage therapists, including her daughter Halijah Tahir and granddaughter Farhanah.
The family specialises in Javanese and Malay massage, and Farhanah recalled that as a child, she would sit beside her grandmother and watch her work. These make up some of her earliest memories, she told CNA Women.
“We help people feel better. Whether it’s a neck sprain, an injured shoulder, or prenatal and postnatal care, you name it, we know how to approach it and ‘fix’ the problem,” said the 35-year-old. “My entire family, including my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, knows at least the basic techniques – it’s like coming from a whole family of First-Aiders.
“Of course, we also know when we cannot ‘fix’ something, ” she added. “If it’s serious, like an injury that involves a huge loss of blood, we always encourage our clients to seek medical help from a doctor.”
Farhanah’s grandmother, Hajar Agil, learnt massage from her mother, Yang Salamah, and then taught her own children and grandchildren. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Farhanah learned the art of massage from Hajar, whom she affectionately calls Baba. The matriarch taught all her four children, including Farhanah’s mother Halijah, and nearly all her grandchildren.
Farhanah runs an interior design business with her husband, but massage therapy is close to her heart. It is both her passion and her family’s legacy, she said.
“I think it’d be really ‘sayang’, such a waste, if I didn’t learn how to urut (Malay for massage),” she said. “It’d feel like losing a part of my family’s history. This is something that all of us, particularly the women, share, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep it going.”
In her home, Hajar keeps a photo of her mum, Yang Salamah (left), who developed her massage techniques from scratch. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Hajar was born in the 1950s. Growing up, she vividly remembers watching her mother, Yang Salamah, helping others by massaging their body aches and sprains.
Most of the time, she would treat people in their kampung in Geylang, but there were also days when she would head to the community centre at Kampong Ubi, with Hajar in tow, to treat complaints, from a sore shoulder to a sprained finger.
“So many people in our kampung and neighbouring kampungs knew about my mum’s magic hands,” Hajar told CNA Women in Malay.
“I remember there was even a pair of police officers who helped us get water from the well in Beach Road – it was a time when we didn’t have running water and had to fetch it from wells – because my mum massaged one of their hands after he sustained an injury.”
Inspired by the way her mother could ease others’ pain, Hajar decided to learn from her.
“I saw how she impacted others just by making them feel better,” she said. “I wanted to do the same for others, too.”
It wasn’t easy at first. As a tukang urut, one would have to touch many parts of a person’s body to address their needs, which could be embarrassing. “You can’t be geli,” Hajar said, using the Malay word for being squeamish or to be put off.
Her daughter, Halijah, 54, and the family’s third-generation tukang urut, agreed. Growing up, she watched her mother and late grandmother massage others, but she was uncomfortable doing so herself.
(From left) Farhanah, Halijah, Hajar, and Farhanah’s aunt, Afidah, who is also a trained massage therapist. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
“I felt embarrassed to massage others,” Halijah said. “The thought of seeing and touching people’s bodies made me cringe slightly. Even though I’d learned the basics from my mum, it wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I got the hang of it and learned the full range of techniques.”
Halijah got married at 19 and gave birth to Farhanah, her eldest child, a year later. As she navigated new motherhood and the physical toll that came with it, she decided to delay her return to her job in the offshore industry. Instead, she accompanied her mother on her house calls.
Eventually, Hajar began passing some of her clients to Halijah. By the time Farhanah was seven, Halijah had become particularly skilled in prenatal and postnatal massage.
“I got really good at it,” she said. “Women, new mums, would come to me and tell me how much they enjoyed my massages, how their bodies felt renewed. I have my mother and grandmother to thank – they taught me everything.”
Both Farhanah (left) and her mother learnt massage from a young age. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
For Farhanah, massage has always been part of her world. “I remember crawling around Baba as she massaged her clients,” she said. “As a baby or toddler, I’d hold the legs of Baba’s clients while she pressed on them to help them feel better.”
Unlike her mother, Farhanah never felt “geli”. She was fascinated by the craft from the time she was a pre-teen.
When she was old enough, she began running errands for her grandmother, including fetching her special massage ointment, writing down client appointments in the family’s logbook, and setting up mattresses in clients’ homes for the sessions.
By her late teens, she was already massaging her friends’ hands, legs, or shoulders whenever they had a headache or muscle tension.
When she was 20, both her mum and grandma began passing clients her way. It wasn’t just so that she could practice, but that demand had grown so much that Hajar, Halijah and Farhanah’s aunts and uncles couldn’t keep up.
“Every day, even at this age, I still see so many clients,” Hajar said. “I can’t bear to turn anyone down, so I still accept them. But instead of me attending to them, I get my girls or grandkids to do it.”
A sign that says, “Kak Hajar seeks your forgiveness and understanding, she has an affair to attend to that cannot be avoided, please do not wait for her”, is occasionally hung outside Hajar’s home to let her regular clients know if she is not available. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Another sign says, “Please wait a while. Kak Hajar is performing her prayers”, which is sometimes hung at the door. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Some days, clients crowd Hajar’s flat, seeking help for sprains and other injuries. There were even times, when Farhanah was younger and staying with her mum and Hajar, when the family had people knocking on their door at 3am to seek massages for their injuries.
“It can be stressful and frustrating, but Baba never turned anyone away,” Farhanah said. “Those moments make me realise how much she values her gift, her ‘magic hands’ that she got from my great-grandmother.
“It’s not always easy dealing with people and pain, but seeing the way my mum, aunts and Baba handle the situations makes me realise that it’s a great blessing to be able to help others and be part of a family that’s so empathetic to everyone.
“Whenever I can lift the burden from my mum’s or grandmum’s shoulders, I’m happy to do so and will accept whoever they send my way,” she added.
As a fourth-generation massage therapist, Farhanah feels proud to continue what her late great-grandmother started, even though she herself has no daughters.
“I’m blessed with two sons who are nine and 13,” she said. “It’s different from having a daughter who can learn from me the way I learned from my mum and Baba, but just because they’re boys doesn’t mean they can’t learn the practice.”
The men in the family, including Farhanah’s late uncle and her male cousins, were all taught basic massage. If she has male clients, Hajar asks her sons to attend to them.
Farhanah’s eldest son has already shown signs of interest. “He follows me to meet clients, and though he doesn’t get to sit in with all of them the way I sat with my Baba, he still has an idea of what needs to be done,” said Farhanah. “I get him involved in simple cases like massaging heads, necks, shoulders or hands.”
Hajar said that she feels heartened and proud that her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are not only interested in carrying on the family practice, but that they also have a sense of responsibility to do so.
“When it comes to urut, we still need to be ikhlas (sincere),” she said. “I believe God gave my mother this talent to help others when they’re injured, in pain, or want to feel better. I’m grateful that this tradition can be continued. I pray it will last for as long as possible.”
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Hajar is a massage therapist, and she has one goal in mind – to “fix” her clients with her “magic hands”, as her granddaughter Farhanah Khailani describes them.
Now in her seventies, Hajar is very much sought after by clients, who come to her through word of mouth, from neighbours, friends, friends of friends, and extended relatives.
But Hajar doesn’t work alone. Helping her is her entire family: Four generations of massage therapists, including her daughter Halijah Tahir and granddaughter Farhanah.
The family specialises in Javanese and Malay massage, and Farhanah recalled that as a child, she would sit beside her grandmother and watch her work. These make up some of her earliest memories, she told CNA Women.
“We help people feel better. Whether it’s a neck sprain, an injured shoulder, or prenatal and postnatal care, you name it, we know how to approach it and ‘fix’ the problem,” said the 35-year-old. “My entire family, including my aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, knows at least the basic techniques – it’s like coming from a whole family of First-Aiders.
“Of course, we also know when we cannot ‘fix’ something, ” she added. “If it’s serious, like an injury that involves a huge loss of blood, we always encourage our clients to seek medical help from a doctor.”
Farhanah’s grandmother, Hajar Agil, learnt massage from her mother, Yang Salamah, and then taught her own children and grandchildren. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Farhanah learned the art of massage from Hajar, whom she affectionately calls Baba. The matriarch taught all her four children, including Farhanah’s mother Halijah, and nearly all her grandchildren.
Farhanah runs an interior design business with her husband, but massage therapy is close to her heart. It is both her passion and her family’s legacy, she said.
“I think it’d be really ‘sayang’, such a waste, if I didn’t learn how to urut (Malay for massage),” she said. “It’d feel like losing a part of my family’s history. This is something that all of us, particularly the women, share, and I’ll do whatever I can to keep it going.”
A FAMILY HERITAGE
In her home, Hajar keeps a photo of her mum, Yang Salamah (left), who developed her massage techniques from scratch. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Hajar was born in the 1950s. Growing up, she vividly remembers watching her mother, Yang Salamah, helping others by massaging their body aches and sprains.
Most of the time, she would treat people in their kampung in Geylang, but there were also days when she would head to the community centre at Kampong Ubi, with Hajar in tow, to treat complaints, from a sore shoulder to a sprained finger.
“So many people in our kampung and neighbouring kampungs knew about my mum’s magic hands,” Hajar told CNA Women in Malay.
“I remember there was even a pair of police officers who helped us get water from the well in Beach Road – it was a time when we didn’t have running water and had to fetch it from wells – because my mum massaged one of their hands after he sustained an injury.”
Inspired by the way her mother could ease others’ pain, Hajar decided to learn from her.
“I saw how she impacted others just by making them feel better,” she said. “I wanted to do the same for others, too.”
It wasn’t easy at first. As a tukang urut, one would have to touch many parts of a person’s body to address their needs, which could be embarrassing. “You can’t be geli,” Hajar said, using the Malay word for being squeamish or to be put off.
Her daughter, Halijah, 54, and the family’s third-generation tukang urut, agreed. Growing up, she watched her mother and late grandmother massage others, but she was uncomfortable doing so herself.
(From left) Farhanah, Halijah, Hajar, and Farhanah’s aunt, Afidah, who is also a trained massage therapist. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
“I felt embarrassed to massage others,” Halijah said. “The thought of seeing and touching people’s bodies made me cringe slightly. Even though I’d learned the basics from my mum, it wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I got the hang of it and learned the full range of techniques.”
Halijah got married at 19 and gave birth to Farhanah, her eldest child, a year later. As she navigated new motherhood and the physical toll that came with it, she decided to delay her return to her job in the offshore industry. Instead, she accompanied her mother on her house calls.
Eventually, Hajar began passing some of her clients to Halijah. By the time Farhanah was seven, Halijah had become particularly skilled in prenatal and postnatal massage.
“I got really good at it,” she said. “Women, new mums, would come to me and tell me how much they enjoyed my massages, how their bodies felt renewed. I have my mother and grandmother to thank – they taught me everything.”
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CARRYING ON THE INTERGENERATIONAL PRACTICE
Both Farhanah (left) and her mother learnt massage from a young age. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
For Farhanah, massage has always been part of her world. “I remember crawling around Baba as she massaged her clients,” she said. “As a baby or toddler, I’d hold the legs of Baba’s clients while she pressed on them to help them feel better.”
Unlike her mother, Farhanah never felt “geli”. She was fascinated by the craft from the time she was a pre-teen.
When she was old enough, she began running errands for her grandmother, including fetching her special massage ointment, writing down client appointments in the family’s logbook, and setting up mattresses in clients’ homes for the sessions.
By her late teens, she was already massaging her friends’ hands, legs, or shoulders whenever they had a headache or muscle tension.
When she was 20, both her mum and grandma began passing clients her way. It wasn’t just so that she could practice, but that demand had grown so much that Hajar, Halijah and Farhanah’s aunts and uncles couldn’t keep up.
“Every day, even at this age, I still see so many clients,” Hajar said. “I can’t bear to turn anyone down, so I still accept them. But instead of me attending to them, I get my girls or grandkids to do it.”
A sign that says, “Kak Hajar seeks your forgiveness and understanding, she has an affair to attend to that cannot be avoided, please do not wait for her”, is occasionally hung outside Hajar’s home to let her regular clients know if she is not available. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Another sign says, “Please wait a while. Kak Hajar is performing her prayers”, which is sometimes hung at the door. (Photo: CNA/Izza Haziqah)
Some days, clients crowd Hajar’s flat, seeking help for sprains and other injuries. There were even times, when Farhanah was younger and staying with her mum and Hajar, when the family had people knocking on their door at 3am to seek massages for their injuries.
“It can be stressful and frustrating, but Baba never turned anyone away,” Farhanah said. “Those moments make me realise how much she values her gift, her ‘magic hands’ that she got from my great-grandmother.
“It’s not always easy dealing with people and pain, but seeing the way my mum, aunts and Baba handle the situations makes me realise that it’s a great blessing to be able to help others and be part of a family that’s so empathetic to everyone.
“Whenever I can lift the burden from my mum’s or grandmum’s shoulders, I’m happy to do so and will accept whoever they send my way,” she added.
As a fourth-generation massage therapist, Farhanah feels proud to continue what her late great-grandmother started, even though she herself has no daughters.
“I’m blessed with two sons who are nine and 13,” she said. “It’s different from having a daughter who can learn from me the way I learned from my mum and Baba, but just because they’re boys doesn’t mean they can’t learn the practice.”
The men in the family, including Farhanah’s late uncle and her male cousins, were all taught basic massage. If she has male clients, Hajar asks her sons to attend to them.
Farhanah’s eldest son has already shown signs of interest. “He follows me to meet clients, and though he doesn’t get to sit in with all of them the way I sat with my Baba, he still has an idea of what needs to be done,” said Farhanah. “I get him involved in simple cases like massaging heads, necks, shoulders or hands.”
Hajar said that she feels heartened and proud that her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are not only interested in carrying on the family practice, but that they also have a sense of responsibility to do so.
“When it comes to urut, we still need to be ikhlas (sincere),” she said. “I believe God gave my mother this talent to help others when they’re injured, in pain, or want to feel better. I’m grateful that this tradition can be continued. I pray it will last for as long as possible.”
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