Malaysian father builds urban orchard sanctuary in KL to channel his grief

In the 600m-odd stretch of the river’s land reserve, there are fruit trees of various species. The Australian lemon tree bears fruits as big as the palm. They are bright yellow but will turn orange when they are ripe.

There are soursop, avocado, Harumanis mango, Musang King durian and rambutan trees too, lining the narrow space. Some have fruits on them, some have flowers. Two durians fell to the ground that morning. Alas, they were not ripe.

“It’s not your lucky day,” says Yen Maseri Idris, 67, who has, for the last six years, diligently taken care of the space, single-handedly turning this patch of unused land (which was sometimes inhibited by drug addicts) into an unlikely urban oasis.

Four stray dogs – Casey, Johnny, Cataran and Jesse – are his loyal companions on-site, guarding the area with their thunderous barks. Uncle Yen, as he is fondly known, had rescued them as puppies just after they were born. Their mother was adopted by one of his friends, so the siblings live with him.

Water along this stretch of the river is so clear one can see the tilapia fish swimming in it. Some female fish guard their eggs in the nest while choosing male fish to mate with. When the water level rises, the female fish use their mouths to scoop as many eggs as they can.

Yen feeds the fish daily. In the afternoon, he would go to the nearby Damansara Kim food court – empty pails in tow – to trade his pandan leaves for unsold food and kitchen waste.

“Fried kuey teow goes to the fish, uncooked chicken skin to the monitor lizards and bones to the dogs. Nothing goes to waste. Everything has a place in life,” he says.

How it all began

It’s heartbreaking to learn that all these different life forms nurtured by Yen, who worked in recruitment when he was younger, began after one life was lost.

In early 2016, Yen and his wife flew to London for the graduation of their second son. He had completed his master’s degree in Political Communications at City University. The couple have four sons; all of whom were studying in the British capital at that point.

Three days before the convocation, their youngest son died in an accident. In an instant, what was to be a joyous celebration was upended by a tragedy.

The grief, needless to say, was all-consuming. His son’s body was kept in the mortuary for 10 days before it was released to the family.

“It was the longest 10 days of my life,” Yen says, his voice calm, but a tinge of grief is unmistakably still there.

The body was brought back home and buried at the Bukit Kiara Muslim Cemetery.

Yen wanted to spend more time with his youngest child and so, for one year, the grieving father became a grave digger there, where he helped bury other people’s loved ones.

In between, he would visit his son’s grave and share with him his daily stories.

His frequent visits to the graveyard opened his eyes to the small plot of unused land. So, in the midst of grieving, Yen worked out his sadness and frustration by cleaning up the plot, sprucing it up and nurturing (plant and animal) life.

Yen says he’s not doing this to teach people how to plant trees or grow an orchard.

“Sure, I can teach people if they ask me but that’s not why I do this. This is how I express my grief over the loss of my son, through a different narrative,”

Each tree, he tells me, is planted with love and is individually cared for.

“Every tree has a story. I plant the trees in honour of someone who has died. Sometimes, the community members donate a tree in memory of their loved ones so I plant them here,”

A community was born

Over the years, word spread about Yen’s efforts and a small community grew from what the grave digger started. People donate trees and equipment and pay veterinarian bills for injured animals. In turn, Yen sends them the fruits that the trees bear.

Eventually, the place was named Urban Orchard Kuala Lumpur (UOKL). Access, however, is still limited so the place is not open to the public. The only way in is through the monsoon drain. It gets slippery (and very dangerous) during the rainy season and the best footwear is a pair of waterproof boots.

“I am here from seven in the morning till eight at night every day, for the last six years,” he adds. He visits his son’s grave often. He is also the caretaker of 10 other graves, including those of his wife’s friends’.

“They want to pay, but it’s not about the money. I’m already 67. I don’t need much (to survive).

There is also a graveyard at UOKL for roadkill, friends’ pets and animals found dead in the monsoon drain.

“I clean the bodies and place pandan leaves on the soil after I bury them. It’s important to treat everything with respect. I don’t hastily bury them just because they are animals,” he says.

Stones serve as tombstones for the animals. There are 34 of them now; cats, dogs, and even monitor lizards.

“The size of the stone represents the size of the animal buried under it,” he says.

The UOKL is currently recruiting volunteers to get the space ready to be opened to the public. The work includes putting up a safety barricade next to the monsoon drain and creating a small path for people to walk on.

“I’m so happy to see how excited young people are in preserving this small space and how keen they are to contribute,” he says.

“I want to leave this to them. I don’t own any of this. I am just the caretaker and I’m happy doing exactly that,” he says.

I ask him one final question before we leave: “Have you healed?”

“Yes, I have. It has been seven years (since the loss) and for six of them, I have channelled my grief to UOKL.

“It’s time to leave this to the younger generation and maybe, it’s time for me to look for other ways in which I can make a difference.

“We all need to move forward, don’t we?” he concludes.

 Syida Lizta Amirul Ihsan

The Star

Asia News Network