Reflections at the Muda Dam
It’s pouring cats and dogs here in Belantik, and I’m still under the weather with a fever, runny nose, sore throat, and that achy feeling all over. But I made it to the cyber café to get some real work done—hee hee.
Very early this morning, just before dawn, I challenged my physical self. “So, you think you're down with a cold, huh?” I said to my reflection. “Let’s give you something to brag about.” I headed down to the river and took a chilly bath in the morning mist. That shock of cold water woke me right up, and for a little while, I felt great. So I took a long walk into the hills, further than I’d ever ventured before. The air was crisp and filled with the wild calls of gibbons and birds. No traffic. No honking. No sirens. No pots and pans clanging like back in Penang. Just the symphony of the awakening forest.
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Yet my mind refused to stay still. I found myself worrying about my kids, wondering how they’re doing on their own, especially my eldest with his married life, and the one in the Swiss Alps—what is he up to right now?
To quiet the mind, I began counting my breaths, walking slowly, deliberately. And when that didn’t help, I turned to Zikr, the remembrance of God, fingering the beads one by one.
I wish I could upload some photos with these words—pictures that show how breathtaking the Malaysian forest can be at dawn. The mist weaving through the treetops, the sunlight gently piercing the canopy, the hush of divine presence all around. I felt my fever was almost a gift—it heightened my awareness of the body and its connection to the mind. I had grown lethargic, overindulging in food in Penang—easy to do when you live in the food capital of the world and right above a restaurant. But it was time to stop drifting, to climb out of the rut of gluttony and idleness.
Whether I had money or not, I made the decision: I was going to retreat to nature. I would commune with the forest and whatever unseen guidance might come.
Life at the Edge of the Forest
The Malay Peninsula and the island of Borneo are part of one of the planet's oldest land masses. As such, they harbor ancient forms of life—many yet to be discovered, while many others are vanishing rapidly. Today, our forests are thinner, our biodiversity poorer. Slash-and-burn tactics, bulldozing of topsoil, and rapid development have led to mass erosion and polluted rivers.
Bamboo clumps, when set ablaze, explode like gunfire. The terrified wildlife retreats deeper into the jungle—or dies. You can’t see the death, but it is there. Silently, the creatures fall.
Malaysia promotes its biodiversity with glossy ads, luring eco-tourists from around the world. But behind the scenes, our forests are being turned into rubber and oil palm plantations. Chemical fertilizers, poisons, herbicides—they all seep into the soil, into the rivers, into the food chain. The butterflies are gone from the waterholes. Perhaps they still exist deeper in the forest, where man has not yet set foot.
Of course, this tragedy is not unique to Malaysia. Wherever there is forest to be cleared and money to be made, the same story unfolds. It would take more than a “Rambo” or a James Cameron fantasy to reverse the damage. We have grown numb to the cries of the Earth. We have defiled our own backyard, poisoned the plate we eat from. How long before we wake up from our sleep of ignorance?
Corruption festers in the very bodies tasked with protection, especially in forestry and land development. Illegal logging, wildlife poaching, land grabbing—it’s all business as usual. Rivers turn toxic, landslides and flash floods become regular news, and stillborn babies and abused children seem to fill the headlines. We are a society consuming itself—self-serving, ego-driven, blind to the consequences.
Yet all is not lost.
Moon Over Lintang
There are still those who choose to walk the path of healing—who fight for the Earth with their hearts. I call this the Jihad of the Heart. Perhaps, through volunteerism and a rising awareness of mutual survival, we are beginning to plant seeds of change.
One such effort is taking place here, at the edge of the forest.
Abandoned farmland—some lying dormant for over 30 years—is now being re-cultivated through the efforts of the Belantik Corporation. The original landowners have become shareholders. The local government, for once, is offering support—grants, equipment, technical aid.
But the true gem of this initiative is its purpose: pure organic farming. A return to nature’s way. A sustainable, respectful coexistence between cultivation and wildlife. The hope is to establish an organic research institute, where future generations can learn from the land, not just exploit it.
Universities are getting involved, students and lecturers conducting research on-site. Yet funding remains scarce. Much of the labor is carried out by a few dedicated souls—some for a small wage, others like myself for no pay, only lodging and occasional meals.
I do this for no other reason than to live by the principle of Amal Makruf—to do good. And this, I believe, is enough.
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