Future forward: The durian plantation is changing the lives of the Semai communities in the village nearby for the better. — Photos provided
IN the heart of Raub, Pahang, where jungle paths curve alongside rivers and clouds linger low over the durian trees, lives a man named Ezra and his 103-year-old mother. A proud member of the Semai tribe, Ezra has made a home for his family on the fringes of the Naza Agro Plantation – land where tradition and toil walk hand in hand.
“I’m from Kampung Ulu Ruai,” he says with quiet pride. “By the river.”
His days begin early. Before the mist lifts, Ezra walks over to the fields where he works. He used to walk 20km before they moved closer to the durian plantation. There are no cars here, just strong legs, quiet strength, and the rhythm of footsteps on dirt roads.
The work at the plantation is hard, but steady. Unlike the uncertain earnings of rubber tapping back in the village, this new life brings a monthly income, the chance to save, to plan.
In many ways, the presence of agroindustries like Naza Agro’s durian plantation in Raub is bringing meaningful change to the Semai community. Developing the area into a durian plantation offered steady work for nearby Orang Asli and allowed them to build their own wooden homes on-site, bringing families with them. Once isolated in deep forest villages with no road access, the Semai now enjoy more stable lives while still preserving their traditional ways – farming, gathering firewood, and raising children close to nature.
The Semai community in Raub live near the river. — Photos provided
Ezra’s story is not one of nostalgia alone. It is a mirror held up to a community navigating between forest and future. On quiet afternoons, his mother and sister weave ambong – burden baskets made of rattan and palm that echo centuries of Semai craftsmanship and way of life.
Lightweight and sturdy, the ambong was heaved onto the back to gather goods from the forests, reminiscent of a time when food and all necessities of life come direct from the wilderness.
They do not need to hunt or forage now as there are better opportunities for income, like the one offered by the durian plantation.
Still, they reminisce about older days, even though they speak less of stories now as their memories have blurred with age. But their hands remember.
With hands that have seen a century of change, Ezra’s mother still washes dishes and cooks meals daily for the family. She looks hardly a day over 80, wiry and determined, a few strands of silver hair escaping her tightly coiled bun.
Ezra’s 103-year-old mother can still do housework every day.
“She can’t lift heavy things anymore,” Ezra, who looks young for his age too, shares as he gently gestures at his mother.
“But she’s still strong in spirit.”
A future cultivated with care
Though the world encroaches with its asphalt and schedules, the Semai remain rooted in something older: Adat (customs) and rules passed down through breath, not books.
“We were taught not to walk in the hot sun too long,” Ezra says. “If we break the rules, we fall sick. That’s what we believe.”
In between work and song, Ezra dreams of recording his music.
And there’s a certain ancient wisdom in those words. When rules are transgressed, one pays the price.
Ezra speaks with tenderness about his ancestors, about forest healers, storytellers, and of pantang larang – the taboos and rituals that once shaped every decision. However, he adapts his life, he’s not trapped by past rituals.
Despite a quiet acceptance of change Ezra’s soul is tethered not to economics but to heritage. Between bamboo flutes and bass guitars, between forest walks and formal wages, a new future is forming.
A legacy of storytelling
Like his mother, Ezra is a storyteller in his own right – through music.
“I write songs, Sewang songs,” he explains, referring to the ceremonial music and dance once central to Semai life.
“We perform them during weddings, festivals, whenever there’s a gathering.”
With his family band, he has composed and performed original pieces, winning singing competitions across the Raub district. His lyrics call young people to dance, to remember.
“Nalek koin berpusing,” he sings softly. “It means, ‘Youth, come together, let’s sewang’.”
In between work and song, Ezra still dreams of recording more music. He once practiced in Raub town with a friend – now gone – and hopes to find new space, new strength to continue. His music blends tradition with the familiar chords of guitars and bass, but at its heart is the echo of bamboo rhythms, struck against earth.
Yet many of the children have never been to school. Many marry in their teenage years. A recent health screening organised by Yayasan Tan Sri SM Nasimuddin brought a nurse to the community. The children were happy and carefree. When asked who had brushed their teeth that morning, no one raised a hand. But their smiles were bright, untouched by sugar, by city life.
Still, Ezra’s world is expanding. He believes in choice, in balance. “Some of us go to hospitals now. Some still see the village healer. My mother – she doesn’t trust injections. I don’t force her.”
And perhaps that is the lesson. In Ezra’s life, the modern and the ancient do not clash, they walk side by side, like riverbanks holding the same current. His is a journey of work, of care, of song. Of holding fast to who you are, while stepping gently into what could be.
And as Ezra’s mother stood up to leave, she arranged the chairs back for people to sit. There was a youthful spring in her step as the 103-year-old walked without hesitation over a large drain to make the long walk home. On foot. Bun in place.
There is so much we can learn from the Semai.
Ninot Aziz is an author and president of the National Oral Literature Association. The views expressed here are solely the writer’s own.
