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'If given a choice, we all wanted to die on the pulau', says a former islander on the joys of a simple life
When he was just 10 years old, Mr Mohd Nazir Dolah was sailing solo for fun on a small wooden boat between the southwestern offshore island of Pulau Samulun and Tanjong Kling on mainland Singapore.
The distance between the two is less than a kilometre, but leaving a child who was in primary school to make this crossing alone would make most parents jittery.
His parents, though, did not bat an eyelid. After all, he had been accompanying his then-fisherman father on a boat from the time he was seven years old and having been born on Pulau Samulun, the sea was his backyard.
Samulun is derived from sembulun, the name of a tribe of orang laut (sea people) who once lived in the area.
The 74-year-old retiree, who is more commonly known by his stage name Nasir Abdullah, recalled: 'After school sometimes, I would follow my father to the sea to fish, catch seafood with bubu (traditional fish trap) ... it became a hobby.
'I prefer (going to sea) alone than being with friends. There's a serenity in being by yourself.'
At age 13, he and other Pulau Samulun residents were asked to move to Pulau Merlimau to make way for the development of Jurong Shipyard. Still, sailing and fishing remained his favourite pastime.
However, all that came to a halt when at around the age of 20, when he and other orang pulau (Malay for island people) were again asked to move, this time to a kampung in Teban on mainland Singapore.
Official figures are unavailable, but Mr Nasir estimated to his best recollection that there were about 200 families on Pulau Merlimau at the time, including families who had moved there from Pulau Samulun.
Merlimau along with several other southern offshore islands were reclaimed to form modern-day Jurong Island, which is now used by energy and chemical companies.
Speaking to CNA TODAY at West Coast Park during the inaugural Orang Pulau Day on June 14, Mr Nasir who is a retired gardener said: "There were so many sweet memories, living on the (offshore) islands. That was why when we were first told to move, many were resistant."
Our interview was interrupted because Mr Nasir, who leads a traditional Malay music ensemble called Orkes Melayu Mutiara, had to perform at the event organised by Orang Laut SG. The ground-up group has been documenting and preserving the life of inhabitants of the offshore islands of Singapore, the orang pulau who are the descendants of the orang laut.
After excusing himself from our interview, Mr Nasir walked over to the stage with a slight limp. However, any signs of a creaky knee and other aches and pains faded away quickly during his two-hour show, which I realised was about as long as Lady Gaga's latest performance in Singapore.
As his band, comprising mainly his children, played uplifting and traditional Malay songs, Mr Nasir gave the attendees a glimpse into island life – where everything is a little better with some music surrounded by family and friends.
QUESTIONABLE FISH BAIT AND 4AM SHOWERS
For about an hour at the beach along West Coast Park, not too far away from his old homes in Pulau Samulun and Pulau Merlimau, Mr Nasir recounted stories from his childhood and youth on the offshore islands.
One of the first few memories of growing up he recounted involved getting chased around by his mother on Pulau Samulun.
'She chased me around the whole island, with mangrove wood in hand, for skipping Quran reading class,' he recalled, chuckling.
Looking back, he said he appreciated how strict his mother was over his attendance for lessons and said it was a "very important life skill" she instilled in him.
'But as a child back then, of course, I was sad.
"I was the most doted on, you know,' he added. He is the youngest of three children and has a brother and sister.
He was so much his parent's favourite that his mother, a homemaker, yanked him out of secondary school soon after he started classes, because the car he used to take to school on the mainland got into a minor accident.
'She said she loved me too much and she was scared I'd die,' Mr Nasir said, adding that he never went back to school and started working as a teenager.
As someone whose life is so intertwined with the sea, he naturally loves eating all kinds of fish and seafood.
One particular fish he highlighted was ikan debam, commonly sold at wet markets even today.
'They're usually quite big, one to two kilograms each … Cook in sambal tumis, or asam pedas, really the best. Other fish can't compare,' he reminisced.
His joy in eating this spotted fish, however, ended when he was a teenager living on Pulau Merlimau.
He saw a friend catch the fish using human waste as bait and then sell it to a fishmonger.
'Since then, I've never eaten ikan debam anymore.'
Besides fishing, islanders such as Mr Nasir were adept at swimming and sailing.
When it came to diving, though, his skills paled in comparison to his older brother.
'My brother could dive without any gas (apparatus) and last for an hour,' Mr Nasir said.
'There was one time my father was so worried when my brother did not resurface after half an hour. My father dived into the water, only to see my brother adjusting our bubu (traditional fish trap).'
He said what enabled his brother to do this was a spiritual practice common among seafaring orang pulau and orang laut. It was called perenggang air, a Malay term that roughly translates to "making a gap in water".
Though he had many fond memories of living on Pulau Samulun and Pulau Merlimau, Mr Nasir acknowledged that 'there were bitter memories' as well.
The inconvenience that stood out the most for him was the commute to school or work on the mainland, which involved a daily 40-minute sampan ride.
'If it rains or storms, you still have to go to school and work. Even in rain or storm, you still have to go back home because you don't have another house on the mainland,' he said, recalling how they would arrive in school all soaked.
A typical school day would involve getting up at 4am to draw water from the well to shower, before setting off from the island by about 5am.
When it came to basic food items or daily necessities, there was a shop on the island selling these, but they would have to take a boat ride to the mainland if they needed anything else.
This was why, although the islanders were emotionally attached to their old homes, they adjusted quite quickly to life on the mainland.
'If given a choice, we all wanted to die on the pulau,' he said. 'But after being forced to move to the mainland island, life became better.'
That's not to say that he did not have any lingering sentimentality for the life he left behind.
For some time after his family and neighbours were moved to a kampung in Teban, Mr Nasir would still make weekly trips to the beach to fish or trap crabs, in an attempt to recreate parts of his old life.
THE ALLURE OF GHAZAL
One aspect of his island life that still stays with him today is traditional music, particularly ghazal.
Ghazal is a genre of traditional Malay music common in this region, with roots tracing back to India and Middle East. Usually slow in tempo accompanied with instruments such as tabla, harmonium and oud, ghazal song lyrics are arranged in quatrains and touch on themes of love and heartbreak.
Though not unique to the offshore islands, Mr Nasir's exposure to the music was closely intertwined with his life then.
'I began liking ghazal music after listening to it when I was a young boy (in Samulun),' he said, adding that it was commonly played at community events such as weddings.
'Then when I got the opportunity to learn how to play it, the interest grew.'
That opportunity came when a Malaysian ghazal player moved to Pulau Merlimau to work. Mr Nasir, his father and uncle and some family friends began learning how to play the music from the man, whom he knew as Hussain Abon.
After Mr Nasir left school, he had even more free time, which he devoted to music.
'Everyone chipped in S$20 to buy instruments like guitar, tabla and harmonium. We bought them at Jalan Sultan,' he said.
Among the unforgettable memories he had was being invited to play at weddings on various offshore islands and on the mainland.
The ensemble would typically play on malam berinai, or the henna-wearing ceremony on the eve of a Malay wedding.
'We will play from about 10pm until dawn, around 5am,' he said, adding that it was the passion for the music alone that could keep them playing through the night.
At its peak, his troupe would perform an average of thrice a week at weddings, community events and radio and television shows, Mr Nasir said. The group even travelled to Malaysia.
Ghazal was such serious business that some troupes would resort to black magic to win competitions, he claimed, believing that his group was a victim of this in one of the earliest competitions they joined.
'During our first song, we all played as normal and could hear each other very clearly. But as soon as we got to our second song, suddenly, we could not hear each other's playing at all. It was black magic.'
Apart from this one-off incident, his ensemble went on to win national competitions.
He recalled fondly how his group won a national competition held at Victoria Theatre in the 1980s, with his original song called Keindahan Kota Singapura, or the Beauty of Singapore City.
The music of ghazal itself was so enchanting and the musicians so popular that there were men who went to great extremes. They took their own lives when their love for female ghazal singers of that time went unrequited, Mr Nasir claimed.
As for himself, his love – now wife – came to him while he was in the music scene as well.
During one of his group's performances, the singer was unable to make it, but along came a singer from another group named Hasnah Kana as a stand-in.
'From there, we got to know each other and we began sending letters to each other. Back then, we did not use the telephone. Eventually, we got married,' he said.
His wife, Madam Hasnah Kana, went on to become a prolific traditional singer in the region until she died in 2020.
Taking the place of Mr Nasir's wife as a singer in Orkes Melayu Mutiara now is the couple's youngest daughter. All of his four children and two sons-in-law also form part of the group.
'Initially, our children did not have any interest. Since they were young, they were forced to help us, follow us and perform at various events,' he recounted his children's early exposure to music.
'It started forced, but now they don't need to be forced, they enjoy it themselves.'
He admitted that his interest in ghazal has since declined because support from Singapore broadcasters shifted in tandem with the community's taste in music.
Though there are numerous groups playing traditional Malay music now, none of them specialise in ghazal specifically.
Even at Orang Pulau Day, Mr Nasir and his ensemble played a whole repertoire of traditional Malay music such as zapin, joget and dangdut but not ghazal.
The Orkes Melayu Mutiara was playing the selection of uplifting songs to accompany the joget dangkung, a traditional communal dance once common at gatherings in the offshore islands.
And the deliberate choice of songs indeed worked, judging by how attendees from different races with varying dancing abilities stepped forward and danced along to the music.
I was tempted to join in, more than once, especially when they played zapin, which is a form of traditional Malay dance I had the opportunity to perform back in secondary school.
ONLY MEMORIES REMAIN
Throughout the roughly one-hour conversation we squeezed in before he was due on stage, Mr Nasir was largely very jovial and spirited.
Every now and then while recounting funny anecdotes, he would laugh heartily, prompting my colleague and I to stifle our own.
He was also visibly excited about his art, offering to demonstrate a few tunes on his accordion and even belting out a few lines to show the subtle differences between ghazal and asli – another slow-beat traditional Malay music genre.
After the joget dangkung performance, we took a walk to the beach to take photos and wrap up our earlier conversation.
The beach was probably about a minute's walk away from the stage, but we took about 10 minutes to get there.
This was partly due to his slow walking pace and limp, but mainly because he kept getting stopped by old friends and distant relatives and even strangers who were at the event, who wanted to say hello or take photos with him.
When we resumed our conversation, he sounded more melancholic and a little quieter than before. Perhaps the day's programme had drained him.
Or maybe the setting sun just added to the mood as Mr Nasir reflected further about the heyday of ghazal music and the good old pulau days that have long passed.
Asked about his wish for ghazal, which had formed a big part of his life growing up on the offshore islands, he said it was his hope that the younger generation would take a keener interest in the traditional art form.
However, he would not go out of the way to hold classes and teach.
'Some people, like me, we are not interested in teaching. We just like to perform,' he said.
Before speaking to him, as an observer who had never experienced offshore island life, I assumed that he would have nothing but strong feelings about returning to the past.
This was not the case.
'Cik berpijak di bumi yang nyata (I stand firmly grounded),' he said, a Malay proverb that means that one is keenly aware of the reality.
He added that he was heartened by the Hari Orang Pulau initiative led by descendants of orang laut and orang pulau, which he said helped to preserve parts of Singapore's past that may have otherwise been lost in the annals of time.
'Such times have already passed. I feel sad that my children won't get to experience it. But I feel grateful that at least I managed to experience it and can share it with them.'
