Zen in the Rice Field.
The call of the wild is becoming more and more of a rarity these days, as the wild is slowly but surely diminishing—if not disappearing entirely—and being replaced by what man calls progress or development. The raw deal is gone. That primal state of being where life is a challenge of courage and ingenuity, a test of faith and wisdom—spiritual survival—is now a memory etched in hidden corners of the world.
I once stumbled upon such a corner. A small hut built by a man who lived, perhaps still does, on the fringe of society—not as an outcast, but because he chose it. His reasons were unclear, even to himself, as he once told me during a quiet conversation. Adi, or “Pok Di” as the village children called him, was a simple forest dweller. He foraged and did odd jobs when needed but mostly stayed detached, always with a silly grin and two rows of yellow teeth that likely never knew a toothbrush. Yet behind his laugh, there was a wisdom—unspoken, serene, and deeply present.
The village was nestled at the edge of the jungle in Kampung Lintang, once a hill rice-growing area now slowly being reclaimed by wild nature. It lies just outside the Belantik Dalam region of Sik, a quiet prefecture in the state of Kedah. When I first arrived, I knew I had been drawn here by something greater than myself—just as I had once been drawn to Green Gulch Farm in Marin County, California, where I lived as a practicing Zen student.
This new place spoke to me the same way. I had taken a random drive in my little Kancil, wanting to explore rural Malaysia. While waiting for my car to be serviced by my mechanic friend Ah Huat in Sungai Dua, I struck up a conversation with a Malay gentleman. When he heard of my intention, he insisted I visit his hometown of Belantik. I agreed.
That’s how I met the man who would become my teacher—Kaptain Zakaria Amantasha, or simply “Kaptain,” though his rank was actually Major. A former UN Battalion Commander during the Kosovo conflict, he was a man of immense presence and power. When I asked to stay, he offered me a small hut. What was supposed to be a two-day visit turned into months—and eventually years.
I slept on a floor mat, bathed in the river, and worked the land alongside other hands—cutting, clearing, and planting. I was the last to remain at night when even the Captain went home. Alone in the darkness, surrounded by jungle, I encountered my true Zen practice. Fear, loneliness, silence—they became my teachers.
The river ran beside the farm with cool, clear water from the hills beyond. Gibbons woke me with their haunting cries. Wild boars and the occasional tiger came to drink, though rarely. Birds and chickens provided the morning music. The stillness, the uninterrupted green—these were offerings to the creative spirit. My work became karma yoga, a mindful devotion in motion.
Over the years, I witnessed the rebirth of the rice fields. People came not for pay but for love of the land. And though there were times when the Captain sat with his head in his hands, ready to give up, he never did. A man does not lead a UN battalion without deep reserves of resilience. Slowly, the SRI LOVELY Organic Farm took shape—blood, sweat, and tears molding it into a living community.
SRI LOVELY stands for Lintang Organic Valley, and “Organic” is the essence of its spirit. From 2012 onward, people came from around the world to learn, to live, to reconnect with the earth. The project gained recognition, even drawing a visit from the Chief Minister of Kedah and a mention in the Federal Cabinet. Kaptain Zakaria was eventually awarded a professorship in agriculture. Then came COVID-19, and everything paused.
But memory, like the spirit of the valley, lingers.
Adi, the solitary man, still laughed at my jokes over coffee. We swapped stories—his life, my journey—and somewhere in between, I came to understand that this, too, was a part of my spiritual evolution. The valley had given me a sacred gift: solitude, surrender, and a reminder of who I truly was beneath it all.
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