we only bend to kiss the earth.

this round we traverse across two lands, through mangroves and olive trees and their destruction under the hands of green colonialism.

(i) “an uninviting place”

Prologue:

I’ve recounted this particular story so many times, it has become a kind of myth in each retelling, moving further from its time point towards this peculiar encounter that seemed too strange to be true. What started out as an innocuous attempt to strike-off from my list of abandoned buildings which were falling apart and usually out-of-bounds, a beach villa that belonged to the famous Haw Par brothers, became a sojourn into hyper-spirit terrain. For most of us 70s/80s Singaporeans, our childhood might include visits to the more famous deliciously kitschy theme park Haw Par Villa. But I wanted, on that particular day, to locate the lesser known (and elusive) beach villa still standing somewhere off route from the marked paths along Coney Island.

Growing up in a dense city, these ghost buildings offered a sense of elsewhere, a thrill of trespass and that small micro possibility of going off-grid. The harder it was to access, the higher the points. Anyway, my friend Y came along and we set out around 3pm looking for this villa, marked on Google maps with no street view no matter how much you zoom in. In videos shared by other folks who had managed to locate it, there was a boardwalk that led to the villa. So of we went, off the path and in through the bushes realising just moments later that we had entered through the wrong opening. We were determined so we retraced back our steps and tried again. By then something inside me was feeling a lil’ shifty, goosebumps prickling up and down my neck.

When entering spaces like these, the first thing that becomes noticeable is the sound. Yes the city’s sounds of traffic or construction works (or both) still remained but somewhat backgrounded by this other sound, a low hum that folds in and out, a discomfiting quiet that makes you fidget about and speak a little louder just to break it. In front of us were these large mangroves trees with branches towering over us. Scattered around were these hardened mounts with holes. The air smelt of wet and rot. There was no sign of any boardwalk and our feet sank deep into the mud, suctioned with such force that we had to pull each other up and out. Around the roots of the trees were all sorts of trash, plastic things with bright colours caked with mud.

At this point I felt I wanted to head back but with Y there I thought maybe I could persevere a little bit longer. We had come this far, I thought. It’s going to be worth it, I thought. I did not want it to be some wasted effort. I did not realised that even Y had grown quiet. All of a sudden, there were these loud rustlings and for a moment the entire area seemed to be caught in a whirlwind. I remember bending low to the ground trying to catch myself. In front of us were two gigantic wild boars chasing each other in strange circles. They disappeared as quickly as they came and all was still again.

We should have up and leave but we continued on in some spellbound daze only to find the villa completely boarded up and out of bounds. We circled its perimeter trying to find an entry and then could not trace back our steps. By then it was around slightly close to 5pm maybe? Time moved differently, somewhat nonlinear. When we tried finding our way back, everything seemed to be in sync, a singular breathing thing, like some primal body. The hum grew louder. I saw a detergent bottle and moments later upon seeing it again, had a sinking feeling that we were lost. The thorny branches cut into our skin and the mud seem to be swallowing us up.

I have never felt anything more potent in all my encounters with the spirit realms until that day. Momentarily I thought both Y and I will be lost forever to this place, stuck in between worlds. I conjured a desperate internal monologue and apologised profusely for the recklessness and disregard of this sacred place, “maaf datuk nenek, cucu tumpang lalu” and before I knew it, we were eventually allowed to leave. In hindsight, I realised that there were already signs from the start that we were not allowed there. No, not in an unwelcoming, we are not allowed, paternalistic Singaporean sense but that we simply did not belong there. That we do not know how to traverse this spirit terrain with the reverence or respect it requires from us. That we are not deserving descendants of these silent guardians of the threshold between sea and land.

**

In a Straits Times article dated 15th February 1951, the English botanist and former director of the Botanic Gardens, Richard Eric Holltum wrote “Fascinating Life Among the Mangroves” to explain the reasons behind the permanent preservation status given to two areas of mangroves swamps. What is rather telling are the negative descriptors used to capture the undesirability of the mangroves. In a short summary introducing the article, the mangroves are ugly and forbidding to the casual passerby but are fascinating only to the field naturalist. There are no mentions of how indigenous communities have strong affinities and cultural relationships with the mangroves.

Instead, the article begins with this: “The ordinary man not unreasonably regards mangrove swamp as an uninviting place, consisting chiefly of deep black mud and possibly the haunt of crocodiles and other unpleasant beasts. He may therefore feel that the mangrove have no place in a civilised country and it would be better if we could get rid of all the mangroves in Singapore”. WHO IS THIS ORDINARY MAN, WHO IS SHE? Anyway, it goes on to differentiate the ordinary man from the field naturalist who “admits the unpleasantness of the mud but finds the plant and animal life of such interest that he is able to put up with the mud as a necessary part of a whole”. MMKAY.

The paragraph ends with a small mention of the uniqueness of these small species of mangrove trees and their remarkable adaptations. Holltum went on to attach a superficial value to the contributions made by the mangrove describing them “as land-building agent of major importance in the wet tropics, formerly valuable as a source of fuel and tan bark”. However the scale of these contributions “were small and insufficient to our large population and their usefulness was considered over in the year 1935”. This was followed by a question posed for who, probably for us casual non-field-naturalists passerby, “what should then be done with this derelict wastes of mud scattered with young trees, bushes and ferns?”

So apparently the same question was asked to Holltum by some mysterious force controlling land use probably and he concluded that these two areas be preserved for local residents to bird-watch as a hobby or vocation. I’m genuinely not making this up, it’s all there just two paragraphs in, written with a degree of rage-bait quality that I will not get into.

ANYWAY, these areas, specifically Pandan and Jurong rivers and a small area beside the Woodlands road were given to the Botanic Gardens for preservation and marked firstly as Forest Reserves and then as Nature Reserves to ensure their protection and security in the future. Holltum then describes the propagation of the pioneer trees and the growth of other less tolerant trees towards land and further from the sea.

Holltum went on further to highlight the less salty conditions of mud and high levels of humidity as being crucial to the growth of, specifically mentioning, orchids ferns. So why is this important? Well because Holltum was basically an expert on orchid breeding and hybridisation and laid the foundation for the multi-million dollar cut flower industry, including being the former top three exporter of orchids in the world. What is pretty explicit here is that the act of preservation the mangroves had nothing to do with the pre-existing symbiotic relationships that were already in a kind of eco-harmony ( and I’m guessing that no one had discovered yet how these mangroves are natural carbon sinks) but rather the power of one man to push his interests forward indiscriminately.

This, my friends, is a kind of green colonialism that still plays a strong hand in purporting environmental benefits as a guise to extract resources and enact land violence. In this case, Holltum’s preservation of two mangrove habitats were also saying these two are enough and the rest can go. Here’s a more coherent description of its horrors¹:

“Far from a novel phenomenon, green colonialism extends the trajectory of a centuries-old project. Today, it may manifest in new forms, cloaked in the language of sustainability and conservation, yet the foundational systems of exploitation and extraction persist—simply repackaged as environmentally friendly initiatives or justified in the name of preserving nature.

In our collective search to mitigate the climate crisis, the global community has rallied around ideals such as “green transitions” and “just transitions,” viewing them as messengers or solutions for a more equitable future. However, a deeper exploration into many narratives that come with this and their practical applications reveals a starkly different reality.”

In a different non-colonised universe, would Y and I be able to pass through the mangroves that day? Maybe, who knows? Maybe the experience itself would not have been marked with such a degree of unknowingness. Or that the attunement to these spaces may have been less fraught.

(ii)Ya Meijana w'ya Meijana w'ya Meijana: Let me tell you what came of us

On a search of Palestinian folk songs, I came upon this video of a woman wearing a Kefiyyah, singing right next to a grove of olive trees. Her figure makes up only 1/3 of a frame and her hand is holding tenderly to a branch. Her voice punctuates my heart and her fingers move gently around the branch, caressing it as she sings.

“Ooof yaa ba” Oof Father: <an expression of unbearable pain> a translation of her words in the comments section. This line was echoed with an ahhh by other women off-screen. She continues with:

Ya Meijana w'ya Meijana w'ya Meijana Let me tell you what came of us <derived from .. Oh mother .. see what happened to us>

Jabal el Qafza nada a'jab izzaytoon Mount Precipice called the most wonderous olives.

Her voice dragged the end of Zaytun, the word for olives, in a cry of anguish and the camera slowly pans out to another hand on the olive tree and then to women and children gathered around the olive trees, clapping to the rhythm and singing along.

Khallu naar houb el-watahn zaytun They (the olives) ignited the love of land's fire with their oil

NiHna bil-arid Aghsaan Zaytoon We (Palestinians) in this land are olive branches

B'ninhini bas lanbous atraaaaaayib We only bend to kiss the earth

El-ard ilna wil bilad blaadina (The land is ours and this is our country)

Ala dal-ounah² ala dal-ounah, w'zaytoon blaadi atyab ma'ykouna Expression of yearing, our countries olive is the sweetest

I kept thinking of these two lines, let me tell you what came of us, we only bend to kiss the earth. Ah my heart. These are indigenous Palestinians and even though their devotion is felt at the core of my heart, their religion does not appear anywhere in this song. Instead their faith is felt through the celebration of the olives and their various dishes, in which the sang about in the latter part of the song,

Our country's olive, the green almonds, sage, the meat pies and dipped in olive oil. The twisted bread and soft cheese (halloum), a meal to keep us warm this winter.

But also a pain and yearning of their love for it. Ahh <3

For the Palestinians, the olive tree plays a crucial role in providing them with sustenance and through their harvest, olive cultivation plays a large part in the Palestinian economy. But the olive tree is more than that. The olive tree has deep historical and cultural roots in Palestine. They are also hardy trees that can handle drought, fire and frost and can exist for hundreds of years and across generations.

Settler violence includes the destruction of these trees, not only to quell the fire of resistance that they symbolize but also to unroot them from the land itself removing traces of indigeneity.

“Israelis have uprooted more than 3 million trees since the year 2000. Destroying the trees is a way of erasing the history and existence of Palestinians,” says Mariam Jaajaa, from the Arab Group for the Protection of Nature (APN), a civil society movement working on food security and agriculture. For Mariam, settlers see the ancient trees “as enemies because they expose the lie that Israelis came to an empty land.” In response to what the APN says is Israel’s systematic destruction of Palestinian orchards, the organization launched a “Million Tree Campaign” to replant the uprooted trees³.

The generational bond between the Palestinians and the olive tree persists. This is described as Sumud. Bashar al-Qaryuti, a farmer from Qaryut, in southern Nablus shared that the olive tree is sacred. “They are the roots of the Palestinian people. If they cut thousands of trees, we will plant even more,” he says defiantly. The word sumud means steadfastness or perseverance and embodies the commitment to stay rooted to the land and defy all Israeli attempts to drive them out.

(iii) to kiss the earth

As I write this, I hear the loud clang of machinery drilling into the earth outside of my house. Construction works had begin since July and there in real-time, I witness the felling of trees that were probably older than my grandparents. Although this is kind of a norm to witness, it was still heartbreaking to wake up that one afternoon only to discover the three biggest trees in the centre of the field were reduced to stumps. I watched as these holes were dug right in front of the trees so that the earth can be turned over to remove all the remaining roots underneath.

Although this truly is kinda far away from the destruction of harvest trees that are indigenous to the land, I still feel that ache as I look out of my living room door, now only to see giant cranes in the place of these trees and soon, concrete blocks of public housing. What is gone seems lost forever and I wonder what kind of magnificent trees were cut down to make way for me in this house and the block of flats here?

This other layer of violence, of building over, or in the case of Palestinian lands, the planting of pine trees to replace the olive trees that have been uprooted, in “an attempt to make the desert bloom”⁴ is a more sinister form of occupation in its efforts to cover up the atrocities that have been enacted on the land. It hides, as Ilan Pappé wrote in the seminal text The Ethnic Cleansing of the Palestinians, the presence of demolished Palestinian villages and allow for settlers to lay their claim as the true owners of the land. Only colonialism can turn trees into weapons

I went into a Jewish National Fund rabbit hole and found a video that explained it all in-depth:

If the olives trees represent the Palestinians, the pine trees which grows fast and bears no fruits are true representations of Israelis. Pine trees were planted to emulate European landscapes and set the Israelis apart from other Jews in a kind of exceptionalism of the west with its thriving temperate forests against the arid and often described as barren deserts. This is textbook geo-engineering or terraforming, transforming the land that is being occupied to closely resemble the occupiers land of origin without any consideration of the land itself, claiming it and then exerting control over its use⁵. This is why I feel a certain way about the trees at the Botanic Gardens because those are trees planted for the white colonials to luxuriate in, shaded from the humidity and the black mud of the tropics.

The pine trees are flammable and unsuitable for the dry climate in Palestine and many have caused intense forest fires. Echoes of land fighting back, sumpah tanah, the curse of the earth. Diseased trees, blight, fires. In the town of Migdal Ha-Emek, the JNF tried to cover the ruins of a Palestinian village with pine trees, which were unable to adapt to the local soil and became diseased. Pappé writes that the original villagers later visited the town, where they saw that the broken trunks of the planted pines had split in two, and in between them, the shoots of olive trees had broken through⁶.

Thanks for reading this far. Till next time my dearest loves. Hydrate, ressociate and stay in love.

=============================

It’s been a year now since October 7th and Palestinians on the ground are surviving with barely any basic needs such as food and shelter. The amazing initiative The Sanabel Team are preparing food daily for displaced families on the ground.

This year I created and performed a new work, qahr, as my call to action for all of us to keep on at it no matter how dire, more so now than ever. I sampled the song I wrote about, with some other things that have moved me this last one year. All the proceeds of qahr is going to the Sanabel Team. I hope you support this small effort or donate directly to the Sanabel Team as Palestine readies itself for the coming winter.

1. https://shado-mag.com/staff-picks/what-is-green-colonialism/

2. Ala dal-ouna is originally a Syriac expression to call for help .. eventually became an expression of yearning for loved ones>

3. https://news.mongabay.com/2023/11/palestinian-olive-farmers-hold-tight-to-their-roots-amid-surge-in-settler-attacks/

4. https://www.scienceopen.com/hosted-document?doi=10.13169/statecrime.5.1.0081

5. https://thefunambulist.net/editorials/israeli-forests-fire-political-history-pine-trees-palestine#:~:text=One%20of%20the%20important%20reasons,the%20climate%20of%20Palestine%20provides.

6. https://www.dawn.com/news/1798646