On Wednesday this week, Malaysia lost a precious son. The untimely death of Nik Rashidin Nik Hussein, traditional woodcarver, artist and teacher, has left an enormous void in the world of traditional Malay art and culture, and his passing will be mourned by all those who knew him and his work.

I was in France at the time, living in a small village very much like Nik Rashidin's adopted village of Bachok in Kelantan. That night, for some obscure reason unknown to me, I found myself awake and unable to sleep. I spent the night on the balcony staring at the full moon that seemed to illuminate the countryside and the stars that dotted the sky. Starring into infinity, one could feel the unendurable burden of contingency and the precariousness of life on one's shoulders. The epitaph carved on the gravestone of Sultan Malik as-Salih of Pasai (d 1297) came to mind:

"Mortal is the world; it has no stability.

It is like a house woven by a spider.

O ye seeker after the world, mere subsistence should suffice thee.

Give heed to thy life for everyone who comes to this world has to depart' (1)

At that moment, Nik Rashidin passed away at his father's home in Kota Bharu, after battling against the cancer that had ravaged his body over the past three months. I received a phone call from Malaysia the next morning. The news did not surprise me. My friend had departed that same day.

I first met Nik Rashidin, his brother Nik Rashidee and his apprentice and collaborator Norhaiza Noordin four years ago. The three of them had been working together for years, creating some of the most spectacular and beautiful Malay woodcarvings that have been used to decorate numerous mosques, official buildings and institutions all over the country.

Between them, they had collected thousands of images, illustrations, records and books related to the art of Malay woodcarving as well as the arcane knowledge of the cult of wood itself.

They had also amassed a huge collection of Malay woodcarving, with many pieces that are more than 200 years old and which no museum collection in the country could ever match.

For someone like myself who is drawn to the marginalised and often forgotten aspects of Malaysian culture and history, meeting Nik Rashidin was like being offered the key into a vast library that nobody else had access to.

During our very first encounter at his village home in Bachok, where he lived with his wife Rosnawati, we hit it off from the start. During the weeks and months when I was back in Malaysia, I would try my best to travel to Kelantan to meet up with Nik and compare notes. Our evenings were spent on the quiet balcony in front of his wooden house, where we would discuss up to the early hours of the morning the subjects that interested us the most: the cult of wood and the culture of the Malay keris.

We would stay awake for hours, comparing our collections of keris handles ( hulu keris ), photos, illustrations and prints. Nik was often amazed by the fact that most of the documented images of keris handles were to be found in the libraries and antique markets of Europe, a terrain I almost knew by heart by then.

"Why not here, in Malaysia?" he would often ask. "Why can't we appreciate our own culture, our own history? Why do we have to rely on others to remind us of who we are, who we were?"

A living library no more

The Africans have a saying: "The death of a griot (learned man) is like a library burnt". Although he did not possess much in terms of formal schooling, Nik Rashidin was an abundant wellspring of knowledge that had been transmitted orally from his teachers to him. He spent his early years as an apprentice woodcarver in Malaysia and then in Bali, and upon his return to his homeland became a student of the foremost carvers of the time.

From them, he learned not only how to carve but also the esoteric knowledge that marked the boundary between the true artist and the amateur. What was more, the chain of transmission ( silsilah ) between Nik and his teachers went back well beyond a dozen generations, which meant that he carried with him a body of knowledge that was well over half a millennium old.

But Nik realised that unless and until this knowledge was put down into words and collected in a formal and regulated manner, it would be mere information that made little sense. Worst still was the fact that he could not pass the knowledge to anyone else, for few had time for what he had to say and fewer still would listen.

Nik Rashidin felt the anguish and pain of someone who was watching his country and his people die a slow death. Accelerated modernisation and urbanisation meant the dislocation and destabilisation of life patterns in the countryside, making it impossible for traditional artists like him to continue their work in a setting that was appropriate to their temperament.

His forefathers were royal artisans who worked in the courts of Patani but Nik was forced to work for modern urbanised clients who were more interested in the resale value of the pieces they bought from him. Art degenerated to a mere commodity, and the world of the keris was diminished to the sphere of tourist kitsch and theatre props.

Apart from the domesticated philistines there were also the religious Pharisees, fanatics and bigots who could never understand how and why anyone like Nik would want to retain their historical and cultural links to the past. Nik's work was firmly located within a tradition that dates back to antiquity and which gave Malay patrimony its weight and depth.

But its roots date back to the pre-Islamic era, and the new-age fanatics of the times we live in could not accept that he a Malay-Muslim would want to carve kris handles and pieces whose provenance could be traced back to the ancient empire of Langkasuka, replete with its Hindu-Buddhist motifs and themes.

Misunderstood by those around him, Nik Rashidin's circle of alienation grew ever smaller. It was only abroad where he was appreciated by true connoisseurs who saw in him the great artist that everyone else failed to recognise.

The artist in exile

Like Nietzsche's madman in the marketplace, Nik Rashidin was a man living in exile. His sturdy frame carried with it a sensitive and tormented soul crying out to be understood. His powerful hands were capable of chopping and splitting the hardest of ironwoods, but the same hands were also capable of carving the most graceful and delicate of arabesques, spirals and geometric patterns on wood and ivory.

In his curves and flourishes, one read poetry in motion and intent. His work was poetic in form and substance, but communicated through a medium that was mute that could be read only by those with the eyes to see.

His pieces sang, spoke and whispered but their utterances went unheeded in world ruled by deadlines and stopwatches.

But Nik was neither living in the right place or the right age. I often thought of the irony of the situation: Anywhere else in the world, like in Europe or in Japan, a man like him would have been regarded a national treasure. He was, without doubt, the best Malay traditional woodcarver of his age and there will be few who could ever match him.

Nik Rashidin was a complex and tormented figure who carried with him an enormous burden of knowledge that had to be passed on for posterity's sake. Our nightly discussions were basically long monologue sessions where he would speak of anything and everything at the same time, spewing forth ancient riddles, codes, formulae, secrets and instructions for an art now dead.

I, in turn, would collect these pieces of information and put them together as best I could to form a reconstituted body of knowledge that could be translated and passed on to others. Together we worked as a team him the mouth and me the pen.

Our first collaboration together was the essay "From Majapahit to Putrajaya: The Kris as a symptom of civilisational development and decline" that was published in the Journal of Southeast Asian Studies of the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London. (2)

At times he would lapse into nostalgia, dreaming of an age now forgotten. In his world, wood was no mere commodity but a living force that had to be understood before it could be utilised.

As the liminal entity that straddled the boundary between the human domain and the primordial forces of nature, Nik understood that wood was both a necessity and a force to be reckoned with. He lived in a world where every single piece of wood had its own meaning, identity and character, and his habitat was a microcosm that reflected a higher ordering of things in a universe that could be deciphered and read like a sacred narrative. The sight of wood panels misappropriated or used for mere decoration upset his sensibility; and worst still was the damage done to the Malay keris, which had been utilised as a decorative object or political symbol by those who hadn't the faintest idea of what they were holding in their hands.

Before he died we were preparing the way for a major academic work on the cult of the keris in Malay civilisation: a book that would for the first time ever establish the distinctive style and character of the Northern Malay kerises of Patani, Kelantan and Terengganu the bedrock of Peninsular Malay culture and the home of the now lost and forgotten fabled Vishnuite Kingdom of Langkasuka.

Over the past few years Nik busied himself with the task of putting together his artefacts and works for an expanded exhibition that would tour the world. The first taste of this was a smaller but equally ambitious attempt to revive interest in traditional Malay woodcarving that came in the form of an exhibition called ' Kayu dan Semangat ' that was held in Kuala Lumpur. Even then, our biggest obstacle was having to persuade others of the worth and necessity of such serious research into Malay culture and civilisation.

Battling demons

Throughout his career Nik was also forced to battle the demons within himself. Anguished by his own explosive and overflowing talent that had to be kept under control all the time, he suffered numerous breakdowns as any real artist would gripped by feelings of anxiety and confusion that often assailed him at his weakest moments.

Yet the man who could break down and slip into solitude and silence for weeks was also one who could mesmerise and charm others when his 'spirit' was in him. For me, talking with Nik was at times almost a revelation, as I understood that through him the voices of generations of carvers, artists and teachers could also be heard. He was a tumult in motion, a cacophony of personalities and a merging of souls. No man could endure such brilliance for so long.

About three months ago, Nik fell ill with a major back problem that seemed to only get worse by the day. After weeks of silent suffering and keeping to himself, he finally consented to be taken to hospital where a formal examination was carried out. The results were a shock for us, as he had been diagnosed as having cancer lodged in the base of spine. Well intentioned though it was, the stay in hospital may well have made things worse for him, Nik being a man who was not accustomed to being confined in crammed places.

(He quit the sleepy town of Kota Bharu on the grounds that it was 'too crowded and hectic' for him.)

Just over a week ago he was finally allowed to leave the hospital and he was transferred to his family home in Kota Bharu. Though his mood was somewhat improved, his condition did not change and it was obvious that he was slipping away. Conscious of the responsibility that was his and his alone, he spent his last few days in quiet, deep thought and meditation. At times he was assailed by his tormenting demons and the great gusts of genius that often carried him to the heavens above.

Nik Rashidin's death has been a severe personal loss to me. As someone who deeply admired, respected and loved him, losing Nik is like losing my brother, friend and teacher at the same time. He leaves behind him his wife Rosnawati, herself a teacher and artist who probably understood him better than anyone else, and four children. Apart from that he leaves behind a body of close friends, admirers and associates for whom his presence was crucial in our work to keep alive the patrimony of Malay culture and civilisation. No institution could ever match the competence and potential of this man, now lost forever.

Dear readers, please forgive the author for the personal tone of this article. It is but a vain effort, a homage if you like, on the part of one who could not be there in time to bid farewell to a friend who has parted for his final voyage.

Goodbye, Nik. We will all miss you.

Endnotes:

  1. See: SQ Fatimi, Islam comes to Malaysia , Malaysian Sociological Research Institute (MSRI), Singapore, 1963.

  • See: Farish A Noor, 'From Majapahit to Putrajaya: The Kris as a symptom of civilisational development and decline'. In Journal of Southeast Asia Research , vol. 8. no. 3. School of Oriental and African Studies, London. November 2000.

    • Dr FARISH A NOOR is a Malaysian political scientist and human rights activist. 'The Other Malaysia' tries to unearth aspects of Malaysia's history and culture that have been erased or relegated to the margins in order to remind us that there remains another Malaysia that is often forgotten.