WHAT was I thinking? Following a man back to his studio/apartment alone? It's for an interview, of course, but it somehow feels a tad inappropriate. Even if the person in question looks like a pleasant enough fellow with laugh lines and a disarming smile. My mother would surely disapprove.
This is my first time to this side of town, where the boundaries of the more scenic Titiwangsa converge with the bustling, slightly seamy-on-the-edges Chow Kit. I can't help but worry about my car, parked egregiously next to an abandoned house, whose broken windows stare balefully at me like empty eyes.
It's such an incongruous setting for the gentle 39-year-old Orang Asli artist I'm interviewing today. Drab buildings with scarcely a touch of nature to soften the place, the humid, almost stifling afternoon air that hints of a heavy downpour later in the day, and grim-looking passersby who look down, intent about their own business, as they walk past me.
The surroundings seem ill-suited for someone whose early life was cradled by the dense foliage of a forest. Yet, he's made his home in the heart of this teeming metropolis for nearly 10 years.
"It's okay," he remarks with a casual shrug, guiding me through a maze of corridors to reach his apartment. This simple acceptance speaks volumes of his adaptation to the urban jungle, a stark departure from the natural one he once knew.
Shahar Koyok — or better known as Shaq Koyok — halts abruptly, his house-key paused mid-air. "Maybe we should go get coffee instead," he murmurs, head suddenly bowed and eyes closed for a while.
I breathe a sigh of relief and he looks as relieved as I feel. Coffee sounds much better. I immediately agree. Pocketing his key, he smiles again, confessing: "I'm a coffee addict. I drink it all the time!"
Adjusting his cap on his head, he says: "I know a place!" over his shoulder. Weaving through alleys and quiet roads, we finally find a place not far from his block of apartments.
Just moments later, we sit down in this quiet cafe and he grins over his cup of piping hot latte. It looks like he has thoroughly assimilated into city life and its abundant coffee selection.
"I'm called orang putih (white man) in my village," Shaq acknowledges dryly. White man? He's anything but. Chuckling at my raised eyebrows, he continues to explain the nickname isn't about his skin colour or intended as a racial comment. Rather, it refers to his unique path as a contemporary artist embracing the English language, music and arts.
"There's nothing wrong with my community's way of life," he explains, adding: "However, we've faced underrepresentation for years. Urbanisation brings development, but often, it's our rights that pay the price. How do we address this issue? I've chosen this path to tackle these challenges head-on. To speak up for my people."
The celebrated activist and indigenous artist is renowned for his painting and weaving. Originating from the Temuan tribe of Pulau Kempas in Banting, Selangor, Shaq's art profoundly mirrors the Orang Asli's reliance on and connection to the rainforest and the natural world. Moreover, his works poignantly address the adversities faced by Orang Asli communities, including poverty and inequality.
Boasting over a decade of experience in the art world, Shaq has had the honour of showcasing his work in more than 40 venues across Malaysia. His unwavering commitment and contributions to indigenous art have earned him well-deserved accolades, including the Indigenous People Icon Award and the Indigenous People Excellence Award from Tourism Selangor in 2015.
Additionally, Shaq was the recipient of the Merdeka Award Grant for International Attachment in 2017 and the Eco-Business A List Award in 2021, marking his significant impact and dedication to advocating for his community through his artistic expression.
PATH TO EMPOWERMENT
As the fifth sibling in a family of six, Shaq's childhood unfolded in the Orang Asli village of Pulau Kempas, a place ensconced by peat forests and lying close to the Kuala Langat North Forest Reserve.
The Temuan in this village, living a day-to-day existence, sustains themselves through self-employment, farming and by harvesting and selling non-timber forest products.
Growing up close to nature, much like other Orang Asli children, Shaq spent his childhood foraging in the wilderness. "I'd head into the jungle after school to gather what would be our lunch. Fishing in the streams and hunting for vegetables were part of my daily routine. With many siblings to feed, it was always a challenge to find sufficient food," Shaq shares.
Life was far from idyllic. His village lacked basic amenities such as piped water supply, electricity, and proper roads at the time. "We still relied on kerosene lamps," he remembers.
Like many children in his village, Shaq lacks a birth certificate — a result of being let down by a much-to-be-desired system. Despite his parents' attempts to secure one, various obstacles have made it impossible. Bureaucratic hurdles abounded, necessitating letters from the Ministry of Rural and Regional Development and the National Registration Department, as well as a police report.
This situation is common, perhaps due to the fact that many in his community are illiterate, making the application process for a birth certificate exceptionally challenging.
"It was such a hassle to get my identity card. That's why you find that there are Orang Aslis who are stateless, without proper documentation," he sighs.
Despite the obstacles, Shaq discovered his love for art. At just 5 years old, he'd eagerly anticipate his brother's return from school. "My brother would share his paintings with me... he was an incredible artist," Shaq reminisces, adding: "He taught me how to draw and I'd sit beside him, soaking up every lesson with keen interest. That's where my passion for art truly began."
His primary school was Sekolah Kebangsaan Bukit Cheding Asli, one of the oldest schools in Selangor. "My mother, a homemaker, understood the power of education," he shares, adding: "She insisted that we go to school. We couldn't miss a day. There was no excuse whatsoever!"
He found joy in his school, situated at the heart of three Orang Asli villages. "I was drawn to learning, to books and I spent the bulk of my time there," he fondly remembers.
However, the shift to secondary school, located significantly farther away in Banting, presented challenges. The absence of a bus service from the village and a seven-kilometre distance to the main road meant access was difficult.
While a few parents managed to transport their children to school, many Orang Asli students, including Shaq, had to reside at the school. Another notable change was the student composition; the school was primarily attended by local children, which came like a "cultural shock" for him.
Shaq recounts his transition to secondary school with a mix of amusement and melancholy. "Suddenly, I was surrounded by students of different races who seemed puzzled by my presence," he says wryly.
Continuing, he shares: "We were poor and our distinct way of speaking made us stand out… not in a good way. The other students had preconceived notions about us being uncivilised, simply because they knew nothing about our culture. This lack of understanding led to many assumptions and as a result, Asli students like me often faced bullying. It was a challenging time trying to bridge that gap of awareness."
Leaning forward, he insists: "I don't blame them because they didn't know. How could I? Our history has never been documented anywhere… despite us being the oldest civilisation in Peninsular Malaysia."
Navigating through those times proved to be quite tough. The Asli students, including Shaq, faced relentless teasing and bullying. "Anytime there was a bad smell, fingers were pointed at me. If something went missing, I was labelled a thief," he remembers.
The bullying was so intense that some students couldn't bear to stay at the school. They pleaded with their parents to allow them to commute daily, just to escape the torment. Tragically, many dropped out as the bullying left such a deep impact that continuing their studies seemed almost impossible.
"I refused to let them win," he says, adding: "I wanted to show them that they were wrong. That determination fuelled my desire to continue with my studies."
MAKING A STAND
Shaq continued his education to Form Six but quickly discovered his true passion lay in art. "It was a mistake," he confesses, laughing. "But at least I learnt how to apply for university!"
Following a short period working as a cleaner in Putrajaya, he took his academic pursuits to Universiti Teknologi Mara (UiTM) in Melaka, where he earned his Diploma in Fine Arts. He didn't stop there; he went on to pursue his degree at the university's Shah Alam campus.
The then-20-year-old university student witnessed the harrowing deforestation that forced one of the villages to relocate twice due to encroaching development projects on their ancestral land.
"The forest near my village was being cleared for a development project. Witnessing this, I was traumatised. As a child, I ventured into the jungle to play and gather food, and watching it being destroyed felt like losing a part of my home," he recounts.
Together with his brothers and fellow villagers, they initiated a stand-off with the developer in an effort to halt the project. "It only lasted a week. I had to return to university and many of us were eventually forced to relent, which devastated me," he explains heavily. "We were systematically pushed out of the world we had inhabited for generations, and yet, we were voiceless against the tide of change."
Upon sharing his experience with fellow students and lecturers at his university, they encouraged him to leverage his artwork as a means to illuminate the struggles faced by his community. "I realised that art can serve as a potent medium for conveying the narratives and hardships of my people," he adds.
The art graduate discovered how indigenous artists worldwide were narrating their stories through art, and this revelation struck a chord with him, especially considering the lack of documentation about the Orang Asli. "We're absent from history books," Shaq states grimly. "Nothing about us is included in the curriculum and despite media attention, our experiences remain largely misunderstood."
He goes on to detail how the Orang Aslis have been crucial to the nation as stewards of its biodiversity, diligently protecting the forests. Their lifestyle exemplifies sustainability, intimately connected with nature, and taking only what's essential.
Their ancient knowledge represents a largely untapped resource that could offer widespread benefits. However, despite these significant contributions, they still confront substantial obstacles, including displacement from their ancestral lands.
"Our identity is rooted in the land we inhabit. Being displaced is comparable to being torn from your soul and spirit," he states quietly. "Yet we're still being pushed away from our homes and deprived of our identity."
He vows to keep on fighting and giving a voice to his people.
Each piece of his art now serves as a tribute to the struggles of the Orang Aslis. His artwork is dedicated solely to this cause, visually narrating the experiences his people endure. "Art can convey more than words ever could," he states, expressing his hope to showcase his work in more venues to enlighten others about his people's plight.
In addition to his recognition as a gifted artist, Shaq has gained international acclaim by presenting papers on the Orang Aslis at various symposiums and conferences. Notably, in 2022, he made a presentation at the 27th Conference of the Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change (COP 27), a pivotal climate change conference held in Sharm-el-Sheikh, Egypt.
Shaq shares that his biggest inspiration is his nearly 80-year-old mother. "She's incredibly resilient. Despite never attending school or learning to read, she recently started to learn to write!"
Soon, it's time to leave and I ask if he has any parting thoughts. "Get to know us, support our cause and help us protect our ancestral land. Recognise that we're the best guardians of our collective natural heritage, so support us in preserving our way of life," he emphasises.
As I observe his diminutive figure vanish into his apartment block, I can't help but think of his journey that's been marked by sacrifice and resilience.
In this side of town, where the boundaries of the more scenic Titiwangsa converge with the bustling, slightly seamy-on-the-edges Chow Kit, this Asli warrior may walk on concrete, but his heart continues to beat in sync with the forest's ancient rhythm and the echoing voices of his people.
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