The parliament of tropical fruits – And a letter to the minister

From childhood, I have always been a student of tropical fruits – long before I learnt of yield curves, balance sheets or global markets. My earliest classroom was not a seminar room but the space beneath fruit trees. The curriculum was patience. The final examination was gravity.

My first literary inspiration came from a single, unforgettable book – Malaysian Fruits in Colour by H.F. Chin and H.S. Yong. Visually rich and botanically precise, it opened the world of our fruits to me, from familiar durian and rambutan to the rare and exotic. More than a guide, it wove together science, use and culture, and remains a quiet classic. Since then, many fine references have emerged, enriching this field even further.

The best fruits were never rushed. Durian had to be waited for – not plucked, not forced, but listened to. You waited for the soft thud in the night, nature’s quiet announcement: now. At my old auntie’s house in Jenjarom, I learnt the art of waiting for falling kings – silence, alertness, and the occasional mad dash in slippers when the night offered its treasure.

Other fruits demanded courage. Mangosteen, rambutan, mango – these required climbing. Bare feet on bark. Palms burning. Sometimes the fruit was not the first to greet you, but the weaver ants or kerengga, announcing their territorial rights with unforgettable bites. Pain became part of the harvest. So did laughter.

In Petaling Jaya, I scaled a towering Mangifera foetida mango tree like a young orangutan, drunk not only on fruit but on the illusion of flight. At neighbours’ homes, I climbed rambutan trees with universal childhood daring. When climbing failed, we improvised – wielding long wooden poles to knock mangoes free, dodging falling missiles and cheering every successful hit.

Later came the quieter joys – plucking fruits from dwarf trees, the more civilised harvest of maturity. And years later at work, strolling through IJM’s Hundred Acre Wood orchard in Sugut, I felt a full circle: the boy who once climbed trees now walking gently between them, hands clasped behind his back, listening again to leaves instead of meetings. These were not just fruits. They were markers of time, measuring life not in years, but in seasons.

Now, standing at the threshold of retirement, my dreams have changed shape but not soul. I no longer dream of climbing trees. I dream of planting them – a small piece of land, a simple house, ringed by durian, rambutan, mango and jackfruit. Add to that, geese waddling across the yard, chickens scratching philosophical questions into the soil, ducks voicing their eternal objections to order. Sometimes the old children’s song drifts into my head – Old MacDonald had a farm – and I smile at how a nursery rhyme has become a retirement blueprint.

For now, the dream remains just that – unplanted, unharvested, still waiting in the nursery of hope. Yet dreams, like fruit trees, need inspiration before they take root.

And lately, that inspiration has come from an unexpected place. Setting politics gently aside, the appointment of Sabah’s new Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food Industry, Datuk Jamawi bin Ja’afar, feels like a refreshing change of season. He arrives not merely with policy papers, but with practical experience and horticultural knowledge in hand. He speaks easily of the unglamorous fundamentals – fertiliser balance and NPK, plant diseases, sunlight and shade, drainage, wind protection and the stubborn honesty of soil.

In a world that so often appoints administrators to manage land from afar, it is quietly reassuring to see, at last, a cultivator entrusted with the fields. The most urgent reform now is a quiet one: restoring the fundamentals of soil health, planting material integrity, drainage, nutrition and field discipline.

Harvests of Grace in a Tropical Garden

My writeup is focused on tropical fruit trees – of memory and longing, childhood sweat and retirement patience – begins again under a new season of life.

Tropical fruit trees are among the most generous gifts of Nature – and to those of faith, among the quiet masterpieces of God’s creation for mankind. They arrive in dazzling diversity: kings that fall by gravity, queens wrapped in purple, golden clusters that feed villages, and humble backyard trees that sweeten childhoods. Each tree is both a promise and a lesson – that abundance is never rushed, and beauty is earned through patience.

Yet these gifts were never meant to be admired from a distance alone. Tropical fruits invite stewardship. They respond not to wishful thinking but to understanding and care – the balance of sunlight and shade, soil structure, timing of water, the quiet science of nutrients, and vigilance against pests and disease. Even grace, in the orchard, works through principles.

When we plant fruit trees with knowledge, we take part not merely in agriculture but in creation continued. We do not force the harvest; we prepare for it. We prune so life may return stronger. We fertilise so hidden systems may flourish. We wait, because trust is built in seasons, not in schedules.

To cultivate fruit trees is to join hands with Nature and with God – turning rain into joy, soil into sustenance, and time into sweetness. And every harvest, when it arrives, is less a reward than a reminder: what is nurtured with wisdom will always return with generosity.

Fruit Parliament of an Orchard

Most nations choose their leaders through ballots, deliberations and the long choreography of democratic ritual. An orchard, however, chooses its leadership by something far older and far less forgiving – season, soil and survival.

If a nation were governed not by manifestos and microphones but by fruit trees, I sometimes imagine its Cabinet assembling quietly at dawn, beneath the soft hiss of dew and the restless commentary of birds. No flags. No slogans. Only the stubborn business of ripening. No speech can hasten a harvest. No rhetoric can bribe the rain.

For such a small orchard-nation, it is astonishing how many Ministers one can harvest – truly a land where both fruits and portfolios come in generous numbers. Let me now introduce this Cabinet of trees.

At the centre sits the leader, King of Fruits – Durian. He does not campaign. He governs by presence alone. Divisive, scandalous in scent, yet fiercely defended, he mirrors how power often works – polarising, oxygen-consuming, commanding devotion, surviving storms that would fell gentler fruits. Political strength, like durian, is not always fragrant, but it is always noticed.

Balancing this blunt authority is the Mangosteen – regal without arrogance, gentle without weakness. Where the King overwhelms, the Queen stabilises. Such figures quietly steady volatile coalitions while louder personalities take the headlines.

Rambutan carries Agriculture – early bearing, faithful yielding, widely loved yet chronically under-resourced. Farmers are praised in speeches, funding arrives late, policies shift mid-season, and the weather is always blamed.

The Mango runs Foreign Affairs – sour when needed, golden when opportunity ripens, forever trying to balance principle and pragmatism.

Jackfruit shoulders Works and Infrastructure – vast in ambition, slow in execution, endlessly scrutinised. When he works, livelihoods improve quietly. When he fails, floods and traffic become the loudest opposition voices.

Finance rests with the Coconut – every part monetised, every husk accounted for. Water, milk, oil, fibre, shell – even waste becomes revenue. Nothing is emotionally spared; everything is financially skinned.

Papaya handles Education – fast output, endless debate over quality and relevance, yet utterly indispensable.

Health belongs to the awkward Soursop – misunderstood, under-appreciated, overworked, summoned for miracles in crises and quietly rationed in budgets.

Banana manages Domestic Trade – prices, supply chains and rakyat moods. Ministers here are invisible until shortages make them front-page news.

Pineapple defends spiked on all sides and guards Defence – rarely thanked in peace, indispensable in crisis.

Guava, crunchy and stamina-building, captures Youth & Sports policy perfectly – energetic, restless, sometimes raw. Youth ministries struggle with unemployment, digital distraction, discipline, and national ideals.

Tourism belongs to the photogenic Starfruit – logo-ready, symmetrical, visually irresistible. Real tourism policy chases optics, arrivals, Instagram metrics and seasonal booms, while quietly fearing pandemics, currency shifts and geopolitical tremors.

Longan governs Communications – quiet algorithms, viral whispers, narratives amplified beyond verification. Avocado carries Climate & Environment – once marginal, now unavoidable. Sustainability was fashionable; now it is necessary. Dragon Fruit drives Industry & Trade – fast-scaling, export-led, logistics-dependent, vulnerable to global shocks. Pomelo reflects National Unity – difficult to open, harder to divide fairly, but generous once shared.

However, every system needs Opposition in Kedondong – eternally sour, uncomfortably fibrous, inconvenient, yet essential to prevent complacency, and driving check and balance.

Presiding over all is the Sapodilla (Ciku) as the Speaker – soft-spoken, sometimes sandy, often under-appreciated. Parliaments falter without the dignity of procedure.

The Voters remain everyone – birds, bats, ants, children, monkeys. Democracy is broader than politicians think. Elections are held every flowering season. Campaigns are financed by pollinating bees. Victories are announced by gravity.

And what this orchard Parliament finally teaches – without slogans or stagecraft – is this: Power ripens. Failure rots. Leadership is always seasonal. And legacy is measured not by how loudly one speaks, but by how much shade one leaves behind – before we return, at last, to our Creator, to give account of how we tended the fields entrusted to us.

Perhaps one day, when I finally retire into my own small orchard – when geese debate policy at dawn and chickens conclude negotiations at dusk – I too shall govern a quiet Parliament of trees. No banners. No manifestos. No spin. Only patience. And every year, if the soil is cooperative and the seasons are kind, the harvest will deliver the only budget that ultimately matters.

And as I step out of this imagined orchard of government, I am reminded that while fruit parliaments make for gentle satire, real fields still demand real hands. Beyond symbols and stories, beyond the play of power and portfolios, there remains the stubborn truth of soil that must be worked, crops that must be grown, and farmers who cannot dine on rhetoric.

It is precisely at this intersection – where metaphor meets mud, where policy meets planting – that a rare and welcome convergence has quietly appeared in Sabah’s agricultural leadership. And so, from the shade of this imagined orchard, I turn now to a very real appointment, and to a letter written not in satire, but in sincere hope.

An Open Letter to the New Tiller of Sabah’s Fields

Dear YB Datuk Jamawi bin Ja’afar,
Allow me, first and foremost, to offer you my heartfelt congratulations on your appointment as Sabah’s Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food Industry. The stewardship of land, water and food is a rare calling, one that quietly feeds rakyat even when no one is watching the hasil.

I write not as a politician, nor as a party man, but as a retired plant researcher turned corporate voyager – someone who has walked enough muddy fields and stared long enough at stubborn trees to learn this simple truth: agriculture is not governed by slogans; it answers only to seasons, sweat and sincerity.

And it is precisely for this reason that your appointment feels… refreshing – like unexpected ‘hujan selepas kemarau’ after a long season of paperwork. In my many decades in the agriculture-plantation sector, I have known only a handful of ministers who truly carried ‘tanah’ under their fingernails – who saw crops not as statistics, but as living timelines of planting, waiting, failing, learning, and trying again. Such ministers are rare. Too often, agriculture portfolios are inherited like administrative furniture, shifted by political necessity, managed from briefing papers rather than ‘lorong ladang’. Thus, your hands-on experience as I was told as a Food Crop Research Officer at the Tenom Agriculture Research Station under the Department of Agriculture Sabah will be a tremendous asset moving forward.

So setting politics gently to one side, your background as an agriculturist is not a footnote. It is the main story. You come into office not merely with files to sign, but with an instinct for land and that makes all the difference. An agriculturist knows that transformation cannot be announced on Monday and harvested on Friday. You know that orchards take years to mature. That soil remembers both care and neglect. That food security begins not in press conferences, but in back-to-basics and resilient farmers.

That understanding gives you what few ministers ever enjoy: an early start to real transformation. You need not first “discover” agriculture. You already speak its language – fluent in baja NPK, pests, pruning and patience.

Your appointment, Datuk, also presents a rare and timely opportunity to reset agriculture in Sabah back to its first principles. Precisely because you understand agriculture, you know that no grand programme can succeed if the fundamentals are weak. Productivity still begins with healthy soil, reliable planting materials, sound drainage, proper nutrition, good field hygiene and disciplined husbandry.

Before dashboards, drones and dazzling technologies, these quiet basics must first be made right. Innovation is important – but it must be earned through evidence, not rushed through enthusiasm. Sabah cannot afford to be swept into large-scale, unproven interventions driven more by urgency than by understanding, nor into engagements animated by hidden agendas rather than field realities. True transformation, you already know, begins not with spectacle, but with steady, stubborn attention to what lies beneath our feet.

I read with quiet encouragement your early emphasis on home-based farming and fruit cultivation. To some, this may sound modest – ‘kecil-kecilan’, as we like to say. To those of us who have watched how food security is truly built, it is anything but kecil. When households plant, they do more than grow crops – they grow ‘maruah, daya tahan dan kesabaran’. A region that knows how to grow will never fully starve, even when markets misbehave.

And so, when I see a minister encouraging ordinary Sabahans to plant, I do not merely see policy. I see hope made practical. Your task, however, will not be gentle. Agriculture never is. You inherit weary smallholders, young people uncertain about farming as a future, rising input costs, climate moods that grow more erratic by the year, and a generation taught to scroll more than to sow. Transformation will demand more than programmes – it will demand trust, rebuilt patiently, seed by seed.

You will need to protect farmers when markets become cruel. You will need to resist easy populism when long-term investment is required. You will need to speak uncomfortable truths when yield gaps, idle land and inefficiencies hide behind sentiment. But as an agriculturist, you already know this: A good harvest is always the result of many unseen hard decisions.

Sabah is uniquely blessed – its soils generous, its rain faithful, its biodiversity unmatched. What it needs most now is not grand rhetoric, but quiet, consistent field leadership. Leadership that walks farms like what you have been doing. That listens without microphones. That understands that agriculture is not merely an industry, but a covenant between land and people.

Datuk, your appointment arrives at a time when the world is rediscovering food security the hard way. Wars disrupt supply chains. Climate unsettles certainty. Nations are once again learning what farmers always knew: you cannot import your way out of hunger forever.

Sabah’s fields now look to you not for politics, but for direction. May your tenure be remembered not by the noise of announcements, but by the steadiness of results – by orchards planted and still standing, by youth who return to the land with pride, by households that relearn the old wisdom that food grown with one’s own hands tastes different.

And someday, perhaps, when we are older and quieter, we may sit under fruit trees planted during your tenure and measure success not by policies passed, but by shade cast, fruits shared, and lives nourished.

For now, I simply wish you strength of purpose, patience in adversity, and the courage to choose what is right over what is easy.

Congratulations, Datuk. May your ministry grow as the best farms do – surely, deeply and with enduring roots.