EXACTLY 50 years ago, the first group of Russian students came to Malaysia to study Malay at Universiti Malaya (UM).
I was among them, and later, in the 2000s, I worked for 15 years as a lecturer at the same university. I remember spending a month in a Malay village with my colleague, Tatiana Dorofeeva. There were 10 of us.
The group was truly international: five Malays, two Chinese, one Indian and two Russians — Tatiana and me.
The Student Service Corps, established at UM several years ago, resumed its activities during a long vacation.
The students were eager to get acquainted with the common people, to experience the hardships of village life, to provide assistance in the aftermath of a terrible flood in early 1971.
At the same time, the Malay Language Society launched educational activities in the village.
We really wanted to go to the village, and above all, learn how to speak Malay. Indeed, in the village, few people knew English, and there, you would have to speak only in Malay. In addition, we were told about wayang kulit and silat.
Also, a traditional wedding ceremony can be seen only in the village and, more, in the east coast.
The Russian ambassador then did not want to let us go to the village (for a whole month!), and we had to resort to a little trick.
We met UM vice-chancellor Ungku Abdul Aziz Ungku Abdul Hamid and asked him to write a letter to the ambassador, explaining the importance of staying in the village to improve one's proficiency in Malay.
Ungku Aziz was so kind that he send the letter not by mail, but by courier. The ambassador was in a difficult position. If he did not give permission, the explanation will be we weren't allowed.
There may be negative press coverage. When he allowed us to go, he gave one condition: to call the embassy once a week so that they knew that we were all right. Naturally, there was no telephone in the village, and I had to cycle weekly to the nearest town of Pekan and call from a payphone.
So this problem was resolved. But we still had to go through an interview. I remember how the student union frightened us with stories about the difficulties of village life. Sleep on the floor, eat plain rice, work in the fields under the scorching sun.
Plus crocodiles and snakes, which supposedly infest the local jungle. But this only encouraged us. No, snakes and crocodiles did not frighten us, nor did the difficulties of village life frighten us.
We have long dreamed of visiting a Malay village, and now our international group was on the way to Kampung Pahang Tua.
The village was badly hit by floods. Rice crops were destroyed, livestock perished. People, fleeing the raging elements, sailed on rafts to the city.
They had to start over: planting rice seedlings, cultivating flooded rice fields, densely overgrown with grass. Through associations, the government provided aid.
The damage was partially reimbursed, houses were repaired free of charge, a seed loan was issued, small-sized tractors were provided for free use.
I will probably remember for the rest of my life the experience when we used hoes to dig grooves in the field for water supply.
In general, having lived in a village and watching Malay peasants working in the field, one is imbued with respect for these strong and courageous working people.
There is a Greek legend about Antaeus, the son of the Earth. As soon as he touched Mother Earth for a moment, he regained his former strength. Isn't that the same with Malay peasants?
Cutting a plow into the ground, reviving it with golden ears of rice, becoming strong and invincible. The open hearts and kindness of the Malays captivated us. We were invited to family holidays, weddings and more.
We were always welcomed as guests in every home, and there was always a kind word and affection for us. Among the families we lived with, we were considered and treated as adopted children.
We found new parents. We were even given Malay names. Tatiana was called Azizah, and my name was Abdullah.
How symbolic! People born thousands of kilometres from each other in different countries suddenly meet, recognise each other and call themselves brothers. Yes, we ate plain rice and slept on the floor on mats, took baths at the well, pouring buckets of water over ourselves, wore sarong and walked barefoot on the warm and generous land, not afraid of snakes or crocodiles.
For in this world, a wise and kind man ruled, called a Malay peasant. Our Malay friend, Yaakub Isa, wrote in one of the newspapers: "We are amazed at how Russian students, who have not lived in Malaysia for a year, have easily adapted to the living conditions of the Malay kampung. Moreover, the residents of Kampung Pahang Tua no longer perceive them as strangers, but consider them their fellow villagers."
We tried to help our adoptive parents in their difficult labour. We went out with them into the field and chopped firewood, carried water to the kitchen, straightened the sheds that were rickety from the flood.
We even built latrines. This was a special project by the Health Ministry — to teach the villagers to relieve themselves not in the bushes and in the river, but in toilets.
We also followed instructions of the Rural Development Ministry and carried out a kind of census of the village population: we went from door to door and filled out a questionnaire, which indicated the composition of the family, the size of the land lot, and even, for example, their opinion about who enjoys the greatest authority in the village.
And when the schoolchildren started their holidays, we organised a class for them. Imagine the surprise of a television cameraman when, upon arriving in Kampung Pahang Tua, he saw how a Russian girl (it was, of course, Tatiana), in the shade of a mighty mango tree teaching mathematics to Malay children.
The children's thirst for knowledge, the desire to learn was great. Often, even in the evenings, they came to our home, and we helped them study mathematics, geography or English.
Or maybe they just wanted to get to know the mysterious Russians better? Of course, our help was more than modest. But behind our backs was a large country, always ready to provide assistance to those who defended their independence in a difficult struggle and embarked on the path of peace and progress.
It was hard to part with these people who had become good friends to us. Many did not hide their feelings and cried when our little bus left the village. Thank you, dear and kind people. You are always in our hearts.
The writer, writing from Russia, was a lecturer at Universiti Malaya