Orang Asli

"Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire." 

(Gustav Mahler)

The two days in Johor at a weekend were for me among the most beautiful days of the year in Malaysia. I knew I had to visit the kampung of Orang Asli, but it has not been easy for a year. I have read so much about them, their history and how they live, but seeing with your own eyes has no equal.

After a long drive on the road in the midst of vegetation, we reached Kampung Salam Rakit, in the Ulu Tiram area, a small fishing village with few houses between a huge expanse of white river, motionless, and a splendid blinding blue lake.

One is good at reading, but then makes stupid mistakes. As soon as I got out of the car, I started photographing and greeting people with "Assalamualaykum." But this immediately made a man of theirs angry, and his daughters, who scolded me saying "We are not Muslims!" 

Here, what an idiot I am, after having read books and articles about them. You came to "kacau orang" (disturbing people), they say to me. So you have to breathe, stop taking photos, look. Walk along the muddy banks of the motionless white river, breathe, see, breathe.

Go talk to Shima who cleans the patio floor outside the house, because it rained the night before and flooded the house. "What would you do with these photos? We are Orang Asli,” as if to say: we are the outcasts, the freaks of Malaysia.

No, Shima. I think you are the first and original inhabitants of Malaysia, that this land is yours, and that you deserve to be respected and happy like everyone else; perhaps more, because you are the origins of Malaysia. And I don't feel any distance between you and me. She makes a funny face at me, and starts getting photographed.

Then they take me to meet Mak Mih, 120, the oldest inhabitant, born even before the arrival of the Japanese. They show me a picture of her at 10 years old in Singapore. Then the men begin to speak: they are angry, their lands are taken, they are forced to live in this remote place without drinking water, the children must take the boat every morning to go to school, and often the teachers are not there. When the river is dry and muddy they cannot go fishing. 

They remind me in some ways of the Rohingya, with uncertain identity, without rights.

Then I go out and walk to the lake. Finally, I see what I've been looking for after a year living in Malaysia: women washing in the lake, playing with their young children, swimming. And I look at the lake, big, beautiful, with blue and green reflections. I go around it, with the children who start to get used to me now, especially the little Johana.

It seems to be in heaven, and I envy the children who dive and swim, without thoughts, wild and free. They have this, they have the beauty of nature, but their rights have been violated by others. They should be the pride of tradition, the roots of Malaysia, but they are marginalized and angry.

I would like to undress and swim with children, but I prefer to do what I do best: strip my clothes and swim with my eyes. 

And feel closer to them than they can ever imagine.

I only tell what I see, and they will always be in my heart.

Shima, Mak Mih, little Johana... For me you are Malaysia, and you make me love her deeply.

Kampung Salam Rakit, Ulu Tiram,
Johor, Malaysia, 26 May 2019 

Italian version