ASIA PACIFIC

Malaysians Seek Escape in Pulp Fiction as Government’s Grip Tightens

By CHEN MAY YEEMAY 30, 2015

Wani Ardy, left, proprietor of a “pop up” book market, with Amir Muhammad, founder of a publishing company.CreditRahman Roslan for The New York Times

KUALA LUMPUR, Malaysia — When Anis Suhaila wants a cheap thrill, she turns to Instagram and Twitter to learn about the latest Malaysian paperback releases. But she does not buy them in ordinary bookstores here, some of which do not carry the titles she is most interested in.

Instead, she usually heads to one of the “pop up” book markets that appear occasionally, almost randomly, on the streets in Kuala Lumpur to find what she is looking for: risqué tales of crime, horror and gritty young love that are written in Malay and aimed at young Muslim Malaysians.

The writing can be patchy, but it is fresh and edgy, said Ms. Anis, 24, a manager at an education company, adding that the stories sometimes touch on “something that is relevant” to Malaysia’s political scene. She devours four books a month, she said, the most recent a tale of a boy who can see ghosts.

This new-style pulp fiction, much of it by first-time authors who got their start blogging, is the product of an independent, irreverent publishing industry that has sprung up over the past four years and has tapped into a desire for escapism among younger Malaysians as their country has become more socially conservative.

The Lejen Press bookstore in Kuala Lumpur. CreditRahman Roslan for The New York Times

In recent years, Malaysia’s laid-back style of Islam has taken on more Arab overtones. And the government, controlled by the same coalition since the nation’s independence from Britain in 1957, has reacted to a fledging political opposition by tightening restrictions on everything from academic freedom to personal liberties.

Young people are told how to behave not only by their teachers and parents but also, increasingly, by the government and religious authorities. Recent decrees have included prohibitions on yoga, the celebration of Halloweenand smoking shisha, or water pipes. Newspapers and television shows are routinely censored, and in February, both the film and the novel “Fifty Shades of Grey” were banned, even though the book had been sold openly for three years.

In Malaysia, writers and readers “don’t have much freedom, but on print, in a book, they can basically go naked,” said Wani Ardy, 31, the proprietor of a pop-up book market where Ms. Anis was browsing one recent Saturday afternoon under a sweltering tent.

Ms. Wani, who also teaches creative writing at a university, set up her first pop-up book market in 2011, just as independent publishing was taking off. She named it Boco, the Javanese word for “read.” On this Saturday, about 200 people — young women in head scarves and young men in tight jeans — were milling around some 40 stalls set up in Kuala Lumpur’s old colonial quarter. As vendors hawked grilled chicken and cold drinks, two young women took to the stage to recite angst-ridden poetry to the chords of an acoustic guitar. Other stalls dealt in secondhand clothes and comic books, but the main attraction was paperbacks.

More than 10 Malay-language publishers have burst onto the scene in the past four years. Most of them produce pulp fiction, but some specialize in social criticism and poetry. They have churned out hundreds of titles and estimate that they have sold more than a million books through pop-up stalls, online vendors and some traditional bookstores.

The books can be riddled with typos, but they have slick covers, and some young Malaysians regard them as cool fashion accessories. Unlike traditional pulp fiction in Malaysia, mostly soppy romance novels, the new works are written in the street slang favored by the young and often feature story lines that flirt with taboo topics such as sexual promiscuity and communism.

“Newspapers are subject to censorship and things like libel law, whereas with fiction, you can then create scenarios people kind of recognize,” said Amir Muhammad, 42, who started one of the country’s biggest independent publishing companies, Buku Fixi, four years ago and has produced more than 100 titles.

Before publishing, Mr. Amir made films, including two documentaries about Malaysia’s decades-long struggle with a communist insurgency until the late 1980s. The first film, in 2006, was banned without explanation; the second, a year later, was banned because it portrayed the government in a bad light, according to Mr. Amir.

When he started publishing, Mr. Amir said, “bookshops told me Malays only read romance, religion and cooking. I thought, ‘There’s got to be more to life than that.’ ” His two best sellers have been “Kelabu,” a racy love story in which a girl hires a fake boyfriend to make her real one jealous, and “Asrama,” a horror story set in a girls’ school.

A rival publisher, Lejen Press, has had one of the biggest hits so far, a novel called “Awek Chuck Taylor.” Written in a combination of street slang and text messages, it has sold about 40,000 copies, making it a superstar of independent publishing here.

The narrator, Hafiz, is a Malay slacker, a college dropout who is usually broke, is often profane and recounts his adventures chasing multiple girls at the same time. “Awek” is slang for girl, and Chuck Taylor refers to the Converse sneakers worn by a character who declares herself an agnostic and a fan of books on communism and anarchy.

The novel does not explore such concepts in any depth. But openly talking of abandoning Islam in Malaysia could lead the religious authorities to impose a stint of rehabilitation.

The author of “Awek Chuck Taylor,” Nomy Nozwir, 31, who writes as Nami Cob Nobbler, said it was based loosely on his own life. “There are people who tell me off,” he said in a phone interview. “They say my writing is too vulgar. But the fact is, I am not hiding anything.”

Azwar Kamaruzaman wrote his first manuscript when he was 18, a sympathetic portrayal of a prostitute’s son, and titled it “Babi,” the Malay word for pig. Muslims consider pigs unclean, but Mr. Azwar said he had picked the title to encourage readers not to judge a book by its cover or, for that matter, people by their appearance. Several bookstores have refused to stock the book based on its title alone.

His mother, a small-town schoolteacher, was taken aback by the title, too. But she came around after reading the novel.

“I’m trying to rebel, but not much,” said Mr. Azwar, now 21 and enrolled in college. “I’m not brave enough. I’m still studying.”

The publishers of this new pulp fiction solicit manuscripts, or at least first chapters, through social media. The offerings are then read by a panel of writers and readers, who are paid in free books. The authors get no advances but collect royalties of 10 percent to 20 percent of sales.

Retail prices are kept low compared with those of competing English or Chinese books, at 20 ringgit, or about $5.50, each. Publishers promote the works on social media with writing contests and book prizes, giving readers the sense that they have been invited to an exclusive club.

Though some officials have voiced concerns that this tide of cheap fiction will have an adverse effect on Malay grammar, the government appears to be paying little attention.

Last year, Lejen became the first of the independent publishers to open a brick-and-mortar outlet: a shop in a Kuala Lumpur suburb that hosts readings and book releases, often with live bands, and sells T-shirts emblazoned with its logo.

Aisamuddin Asri, a former semiconductor engineer who founded Lejen, said officers from the Home Ministry had come by several times, following up on public complaints. But they left without taking any action.

Mr. Amir, the former filmmaker, who just opened his own physical store, quipped of the authorities, “Let’s hope they continue not to read.”