A Fortune-Teller Told Me (25 page)

A story which has intrigued me in recent years is how modern pirates, with very fast boats and sophisticated weapons, attack supertankers and container ships in the waters of Southeast Asia and the China Sea. Many of the incidents had taken place in the Straits of Malacca, and I thought it would be interesting to sail down their entire length. The port serving Kuala Lumpur is the nearby town of Klang, and one morning I went there to explore the possibility of taking a ship for my next destination—Singapore.

The only positive thing I learned from the trip to Klang was that the local sultan was unable to live in his residence by the sea. The old palace was bewitched, and had had to be demolished; the new one was just finished, but ghosts had moved in even before the sultan. As for ships plying the Straits of Malacca, nothing doing. There was no passenger service to Singapore; cargo ships were plentiful enough, but to get onto one I would need a special permit. The Foreign Ministry put me in touch with the Transport Ministry, which asked me to write a letter and enclose my curriculum vitae. It was the first time I had ever had to put in writing where I was born, where I had studied and how many children I had, in order to travel from A to B. But even that was not enough. Every time I telephoned to ask about the permit, they told me to wait.

While I was waiting, I went with M.G.G. Pillai in a shuddering red Volkswagen to visit the headquarters of the Islamic Al Arqam sect. Sungai Panchala, a village about six miles outside Kuala Lumpur, had
once been the administrative center of a large rubber plantation. As we approached, the first impression was that it was still just that, with its white masonry buildings and corrugated-iron roofs amid orchards of banana and papaya trees. But the impression was short-lived. We passed groups of children along the road, all in green and white uniforms, and then, like lugubrious triangles in motion, some women wrapped in black robes from head to foot, with black gloves and black veils over their faces and shoulders.

M.G.G., at the steering wheel, had been telling me that one consequence of imposing veils on Malay women was that the dermatologists were making a great deal of money. Given the hot and humid tropical climate, the poor creatures, who had previously washed frequently, oiled their hair and left it exposed to the air, were now developing eczema and sores on their heads. Many went bald.

We came across some extremely elegant men, comfortable in their long light-colored tunics and handsome turbans. Men! Always the privileged ones, I thought. I noticed too that they wore makeup, a very fine black line around the eyes that gave their expression an added note of intensity. I felt as if I had wandered into a madhouse, and had better be careful not to irritate the inmates.

M.G.G. had telephoned to announce our visit, so we were greeted with the liturgy common to all totalitarian states, parties and movements: a welcoming speech by a reception committee, a souvenir photo for their propaganda publications and a request to write our names, addresses and comments in the Golden Book.

The formula that makes these groups tick is always the same: a simple ideology, a charismatic leader, a uniform, rigid rules of behavior. In return they promise some sort of salvation; first of all from the boredom and routine of daily life. The idea of Al Arqam is that the world, more and more decadent and corrupted by materialism, is heading for a catastrophe. Salvation will come from Uzbekistan with a new messiah, who under a black banner will lead the regeneration of Islam and the entire human race.

Al Arqam was founded in 1967 by Ustadz Ashaari, a young radical who, having got nowhere in traditional politics, had found his true vocation: that of a guru. For the members of the sect Ashaari is a demigod. Married to four wives and father of thirty-seven children, he has written
more than fifty books and has traveled all over the world, meeting heads of state and presidents… All this was explained to us by one of his devotees, who in pronouncing Ashaari’s name reverently dropped his voice, as the Chinese used to do when they said “Chairman Mao.”

Between the ages of twenty and forty the members of Al Arqam live in the community in Sungai Panchala, then they reenter normal life. While they are living within the community they receive food and lodging, plus pocket money for small personal expenses. Those who live outside contribute to the group’s finances by handing over 50 percent of all they earn. The sect has followers in every area of society, from the public administration to the courts, from economics to politics.

The headquarters was bought by the community in 1972. It is mainly a center of propaganda, producing books, cassettes and videos to spread the ideas of the movement. The audiovisual studio was run by a former technician from Radio Malaysia. He seemed calm and happy.

“We certainly aren’t antimodern as such,” explained the sect’s chief ideologist. “We’re only against the Western type of modernity, which is exclusively materialistic and nonspiritual. We favor a development that won’t damage nature or exploit other peoples.”

Al Arqam rejects consumerism, and has set up its own alternative economic system, with factories, farms and shops to meet its needs. The members want an Islamic economy, by which they mean an economy not based on the concept of profit. They want to be Muslims in every aspect of life, and not, like the majority, “only at the hour of prayer.”

With their rejection of the consumerism and materialism of modern society, combined with Muslim integralism, these totalitarian hippies struck me as less mad than I had initially assumed. The pace of life in their community was pleasantly slow, and they seemed serene and calm. But there was still the disturbing idea of Islam with ever-drawn sword, to which was now added the vision of those black banners leading the regeneration of the world.

Al Arqam was an example of how the rejection of materialism leads many young people to search for a new spirituality, for something that will impose discipline and rules in exchange for a sense of belonging. Islam is well suited to meet this need, and in various ways is trying to fill the empty spaces left by the failure of ideologies like Communism or of economic experiments tainted by capitalism. But Islam is surely
too antiquated and too repressive—especially as regards women—to be the hope for the future. Will the twenty-first century see the birth of a great new world religion?

Seeing the “famous” fortune-teller proved impossible. None of his clients canceled their appointment. “Never mind. When you get to Singapore, go and see Rajamanikam,” said M.G.G. Pillai. “He’s really superb.” As usual, the exceptional fortune-teller is always elsewhere.

M.G.G. said that Rajamanikam was truly special, and that some of Singapore’s most eminent political figures discreetly sought his advice. M.G.G. had known him for years, and had consulted him when his father was very ill. Rajamanikam was basically an astrologer, but after asking what symptoms M.G.G.’s father had, and the time and date of his birth, he added another question: “Is your house above ground level?”

“Yes,” M.G.G. replied.

“Then go and dig in the earth right under where your father’s bed is, and bring me all you find there.”

They found a paper packet containing some dried herbs and an amulet of the Bugis, the inhabitants of the eastern islands of Indonesia who are the most dreaded masters of black magic. Rajamanikam took the packet, and delicately, as if it were a bomb, defused it. M.G.G.’s father recovered. But not for long. He had a relapse and died. When they cleared out the room his family discovered another amulet hidden under the mattress, identical to the first. Years later M.G.G. was called to the bedside of one of his father’s colleagues, who confessed that it was he who had had the amulets put there, because of some old jealousy. Before dying he wanted to get this weight off his conscience.

My request to travel by boat down the Straits of Malacca was utterly unsuccessful. Every time I phoned the Foreign Ministry they said the matter was in the hands of the Transport Ministry, who in turn said it was up to the security services. In other words Malaysia’s counterespionage was still wondering why on earth a European journalist should want to go to Singapore by boat when it was so much more convenient to fly. I resigned myself to continuing overland. That way, at least, I could stop in Malacca, the most bewitched city on earth.

Y
ou have to wait until night falls, and then walk silently along the walls, climb up one of the hills and sit quietly on the old stones, and you will hear it. It is almost a whisper, like the breeze, but you hear it all the same: the voice of history. Malacca is like that: full of dead. And the dead whisper. They whisper in Chinese, in Portuguese, in Dutch, in Malay, in English, some even in Italian, others in languages no one speaks anymore. But it hardly matters: the stories told by the dead of Malacca no longer interest anyone.

Malacca, on the west coast of Malaysia, is a city freighted with the past, soaked in blood and sown with bones. It is an extraordinary city where half the world’s races have met, fought, loved and reproduced; where different religions have come together, tolerated each other and integrated; where the interests of great empires have struggled for primacy; and where today modernity and progress are pitilessly suffocating all diversity, all conflict, in torrents of cement, to create that bland uniformity in which the majority seem to feel at home.

Nine years ago a
feng shui
expert said that Bukit China—the Hill of the Chinese—was the lung of the city, and that without it Malacca would suffocate. But for that warning, one of the city’s most historic and romantic places would have been handed over to speculative builders and their bulldozers. For over five centuries the
hua-ren
of Malacca have buried their dead on the gentle slopes of that sunny height with its sea view. The tombs vary in size and splendor, but all are of the same whiteness, and of the same rotundity, like maternal wombs, all perfectly exposed to that “cosmic breath” which gives life to those who depart for the other world and brings good fortune to those who remain.

The day I arrived in Malacca was Ching Ming, the Festival of Souls,
and the hill swarmed with Chinese paying homage to their ancestors. Families crouched around the burial mounds, pulling up weeds, laying bunches of flowers, lighting candles and sticks of incense, and neatly arranging bowlfuls of rice, piles of oranges and tangerines and wads of gold-edged banknotes, so that the deceased could help themselves.

Malacca was founded by a young Malay prince who had stopped there on a hunting trip. He named it after the large melaka tree that presided over the mouth of the river. The Chinese landed there in 1409, led by a eunuch, a great Muslim admiral by the name of Chen Ho. China was then at the peak of its power. It built ships that could carry up to seven hundred people, it had invented gunpowder (but only used it to make fireworks), and it sought diplomatic and trade relations with the rest of Asia. The small port of Malacca was an ideal base, but the Chinese did not want to conquer it, only the right to live there, to moor their boats and load and unload their goods. To obtain these privileges they gave the local rulers five hundred marriageable girls, including a daughter of the emperor.