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| "Minah Angong" by Andy Maguire (oil on fiberboard, 10" X 8") |
Yes, I am pleased to tell you my story. But as I cannot write things down, I will ask my friend to help. He is among those who knew me well in my last years on this earth. I whisper these words in his mind’s ear, for he is still in the world of the living, while I am already back in the realm of spirit, and happily so.
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| Minah Angong's gravestone |
My bones now lie
buried on top of a hill overlooking the saddest sight you can imagine. Majestic
hills stripped of trees, mountains blown up to make a dam. I may be dead but my
spirit lives on in my songs, and in the sacred (and now badly scarred)
landscape I love so dearly. One day my songs will be heard and they will soften the hardened hearts of the greedy ones
who destroy more than they construct. When men’s hearts heal, so will the land.
I was born in
Pertak, Ulu Selangor, between two world wars, into the Temuan tribe. The
identity card issued by the government says I arrived on September 14, 1930,
and records my name at birth as Menah Anak Kuntom. People knew me as Mak Minah because that was
my stage name as lead singer with a band called Akar Umbi. Perhaps the most
exciting moment of my life was when we performed before 42,000 people at the
biggest stadium in Selangor. Afterwards, so many people came and congratulated
me. I had a photograph taken with Sharifah Aini and Sahara Yaacob, who were
also performing that night. We looked like three queens together!
Anyway, Menah or
Minah makes little difference to me, since I can’t spell. Our names keep
changing as we change. But once we write anything down, it becomes harder to
change. Take my sister’s name: although we have the same father and mother, her
name is recorded in her identity card as Indah Anak Merkol, after our stepfather. My mother’s name was Beresih but
all her children called her Mui, which is the Temuan word for Mak or Mother.
As a child I
remember life was carefree and fun. Fish was abundant in the streams, and the
forest supplied all our needs, except for luxuries like sugar, salt, and milled
rice. Fresh meat was easily available as there were many animals that could be
hunted or trapped. We Orang Asli can eat
anything, with or without legs or wings, as long as it’s not poisonous (we even
know how to remove the poison from some wild plants so that they become
edible). Apart from fish and wild boar, we also eat porcupines, pythons, leaf
monkeys, deer, birds, and bamboo rats (whose flesh is very clean and sweet, as
they feed only on bamboo shoots). These are all gifts of the Great Spirit That
Dwells In Everything.
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| Mak Minah with younger sister Indah (1997) |
The only
education I received was from my grandmother, who enjoyed telling us stories.
She explained how human beings were seeded on Tanah Tujuh (which is what we
call this physical world) by Mamak and Inak Bongsu, a brother and sister who
survived the Great Flood by clinging to the top of a gaharu tree on
Gunung Raja.
My grandmother
was full of wonderful tales about the beautiful elven races (Orang Halus) who
left the planet for the higher heavens when the Difficult Times began. Some
chose to remain, because they had grown to love the earth, but they gradually
became invisible to human eyes.
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| Minah claimed she could summon the dragon, totem of her tribal lineage (Peter Lau) |
People ask me if
Orang Asli have any religion. I always reply that we don’t need religion
because our God is not separate from the everyday world in which we live. The
Great Spirit That Dwells In Everything takes all forms and speaks to us as the
song of the wind in the bamboo grove, or as the neverending gossip of the
river. Sometimes it is the distant call of a mist-covered mountain. Other
times, it is as close as a sleeping child breathing gently in its mother’s ear.
During my
lifetime I saw how people became blinded by ambition and greed. They began to
mine the earth for metals and log the forest for wood. With each passing year
the land became hotter and the rivers became dirtier, so we could no longer
drink the water without boiling it first.
With each passing year we had to walk farther and farther to find some
bamboo or catch some fish because people would come into the forest and take
out more than they needed. And with each passing year we saw more and more
wilderness cleared so that towns could be built.
I enjoyed going
to town where many things could be bought, but to do that we had to sell
durians, petai, bamboo, cane (manao) and aromatic wood (gaharu)
for cash. Yet I could never imagine myself living in a town where it’s always
so noisy and hot. Like all Orang Asli, I dearly love the jungle which is our
natural home and hunting ground. I would rather die than be forced to live in a
town.
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| Japanese soldier in Malaya, 1942 |
When I was 12
the world turned upside down. Planes dropped bombs in the jungle to destroy
bridges and railway tracks. We had to hide in caves on the slopes of mountains.
For many years my family stayed hidden deep in the forest, for fear that we may
be captured or killed by the invaders. During those war years we missed the
taste of salt and sugar. We lived in the middle of the Malay Peninsula - far
from the sea – and had grown accustomed to flavoring our food with salt bought
from the Chinese merchants. My mother
taught me how to make cooking oil from the perah nut.
After the war
life became even worse for us. The government put us all in detention camps,
surrounded by barbed wire, and guarded by soldiers. They said it was to protect
us from the communist guerrillas. Unused to suddenly being confined in a small
space so close to town, many of our people became depressed, fell sick, and
died. This is how I lost both my parents.
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| Sembo, Minah's favorite granddaughter |
But I was
already an attractive young woman with many admirers. My life stretched ahead
of me like a newly laid road, and I had a taste for adventure. I found myself
married to a man I hardly knew. At least he could take me away from the
confines of the resettlement camp. We ran back to our beloved jungle and built
a hut along the river, along with many others who could no longer bear living
within a fence.
My first
marriage was a tragedy. I was too young to be a dutiful mother. My children
died of illness and my husband left me. For a while, I flirted with the idea of
becoming a white man’s mistress. Then I met Angong who had recently become the
Batin (headman) of Kampong Gerachi. He was a patient man with great wisdom. It
was he who taught me the ceremonial songs passed down to him by his ancestors.
Angong taught me to be proud of my noble naga (dragon) lineage. Not
every family has an animal totem. Only those with some knowledge of jungle
medicine (jampi) or who possess magical powers (dukun) have
special allies in the animal kingdom.
I bore Angong
five children and greatly missed him when he returned to Pulau Buah, where
souls go after they drop their physical bodies (which we call baju, or
clothes). When my children grew up and started their own families, I moved
to Kampong Pertak to live with my younger sister Indah and her husband Rasid.
My elder brothers, Diap and Utat, lived nearby.
My eldest son, Ramsit, took over as Batin of Gerachi.
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| Minah Angong & Nai Anak Lahai with Akar Umbi lineup in August 1995 |
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| Mak Minah with Antares & Chandrabhanu after performing 'Birthplace Reclaimed' in 1993 (photo by Rafique Rashid) |
It was fated
that my life would begin to change in 1992. I met a few people from the big
city who happened to be musicians. They heard me singing and decided to record
my voice, adding musical instruments to give my traditional sawai
(healing) songs a modern sound. The first song we created together was called Burung
Meniyun. I was asked to sing it on stage during a performance by a famous
dancer named Chandrabhanu who lived in Australia. I was surprised and touched
that people in the big city would receive my humble song with such open
hearts. Never before had I sung for so
many strangers in such a large hall! Chandrabhanu himself was quite a colorful
character, dressed up as some kind of witch doctor with all sorts of strange
objects dangling from his body. I found it exciting to meet so many new friends
who were delighted to hear my ancient songs.
It all happened
so quickly. One moment I was just an Orang Asli widow gathering firewood and
tapioca leaves in the forest and going fishing with my sister. Then suddenly I
was on national TV singing for thousands of people in a huge stadium! I shall
never forget the pleasure of hearing the loud applause and shaking hands with
everybody afterwards. I felt proud to be able to please so many people with my
simple songs. For once I could feel that no one was looking down on me, or
ignoring me, for being an uneducated Orang Asli.
Can you imagine
how it feels to be recognized by someone in Ulu Langat who had seen my
performance on TV? When I went to the
market in town, people came up to me and congratulated me on my performance.
But back in Kampong Pertak, I was greeted with a mixture of wholehearted
support and suspicion. Some whispered behind my back that I was soon going to
be too sombong (proud) to be their friend. That really hurt my heart.
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| Minah performs at the first Rainforest World Music Festival in Sarawak, August 1998 (Wayne Tarman) |
I enjoy singing
for people, and my late husband taught me that these songs handed down from our
ancestors carry healing power. They are medicine songs. When I sing I can feel
my spirit expand like a strong wind blowing through a tree. Naik angin,
we call it. Once I start I must carry on
until the wind becomes a breeze and goes quietly on its way. If I don’t let the
spirit wind flow (lepas angin) I can get very sick.
My first
experience of flying was when Akar Umbi performed in Sarawak at the Rainforest
World Music Festival. I had such a grand time and made even more friends. I returned
to Sarawak with Akar Umbi the next year, for the last time. At the party after
the close of the festival, my newfound friends sang me a rousing Iban farewell.
My heart was light and heavy at the same time. Perhaps I knew this was our last
meeting on this earth.
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| Photo by Roland Takeshi |
Even as I felt
the pleasure of being applauded, I could feel the pain of losing our past and
future. The dam project would soon destroy Kampong Gerachi and its durian
orchards. A man-made lake would fill the Selangor River Valley, drowning a once-beautiful
forest, along with our ancestral graves. I could not imagine anyone so foolish
as to declare war against the forces of nature.
Did they have no understanding of, or respect for, our deep love of the
land? Were they totally unaware that destroying the land would mean the end of
our livelihood and future? We are
the land. If the land dies, we die.
My sister Indah
and brothers Diap and Utat felt the same way that I did. We cherished our
traditions and would never lose our heart connection to the land, even if we
were offered vast amounts of money. The
Temuan tribe has lived here for many thousands of years; the hills and valleys
and rivers are much, much older than that. Our fruit trees can live for over a
hundred years and as long as we keep planting new ones, our
great-great-grandchildren will never starve. But if they destroy the wilderness
and put our people in housing estates and make us work in factories, our tribe
will be disappear within a generation. Our nenek-moyang (ancestors) told
us: “When Orang Asli are no longer visible on this earth, the sea will rise,
the sky will fall, and everything will perish.”
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| Minah Angong by Antares (1999) |
It all seemed
hopeless. My own son, as headman, had signed an agreement with the dam builders
and loggers, allowing the destruction to begin.
I tried to talk him out of it, but he silenced me, his own mother. My sorrow ran deep. Before it had even started the dam project
had split our families apart.
But there were
thousands of voices raised against the dam, and I was glad that we had so many
friends, people who knew the true value of the rainforest and fought hard to
stop the destruction. I was interviewed
by many reporters and I told them how I felt about seeing our way of life being
taken from us. One reporter asked me: “Don’t
you want to see your grandchildren getting a good education, which they can
only get when development reaches the rural areas?” I replied: “All those who
cut down the trees and make the hills bare, causing landslides and floods,
aren’t they educated too? If that’s what being educated means, then we Orang
Asli don’t want to be educated!” The reporter had nothing to say to that.
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| Minah gazes at the Indian Ocean at Batu Ferringhi, Penang, 1993 (photo: Rafique Rashid) |
In a way, I’m
glad I didn’t live to see the bulldozers and excavators arrive. Three weeks
after I performed in Sarawak, I fell ill and surrendered my body to the earth. It has become
part of the sacred landscape of my ancestors. But my spirit is reunited at last
with the Great Spirit That Dwells In Everything and I am happy.
