IN THE MANGROVE-FRINGED fishing village of Kuala Sangga, an elderly man leaned on his walking stick, and dipped his finger into the dye bath I had prepared from mangrove bark. He squinted at me and asked, “Whose daughter are you? Are you from Sepetang or Matang?” I smiled gently. I wasn’t from either. I was a graduate student from Penang, here to collect data for my doctoral research.

At an environmental camp organized by Look Port Weld, an NGO, I watched as the children eagerly dipped plain cloth into bubbling bark dye. The earthy, herbal scent, like a Chinese medicinal tonic soup, hung thick in the air. One of the ladies, who swore she’d watched her elders doing so since childhood, declared, “Boil? No need. Just soak the bark, dip the cloth, and dry it under the sun. That is Ni Siap.[1] Our colour was much nicer then.”

Her confidence intrigued me. Maybe it was her defiance, or maybe my own stubbornness. Either way, I decided to investigate. I applied for a grant, rolled up my sleeves, and began like most academics do—with a literature review.

What I discovered amazed me. Mangrove-based dyes have a long history across the world. Records point to their use from South America,[2] India, Okinawa and Indonesia[3] to Sabah by the Bajau and the Iranun ethnic groups[4]; the practice was once widespread. The science was clear too: the colour comes from tannins, phenolic compounds in mangrove bark that help deter herbivores and, when used as a dye, impart lasting durability to the materials they colour.[5] Most sources suggest heat treatment was necessary to extract the tannin, but every person I spoke to in Sepetang said the same thing—no boiling.

So, I tried it their way—cold soaking. The result? Disastrous. The colour was weak, the texture was wrong. Weeks of trial and error yielded only frustration. I began doubting myself. To be exact, I started doubting their memories. After all, Ni Siap hadn’t been practised since the 1970s or 1980s.

One bright afternoon, something changed. The dull samples I’d left under the sun deepened in tone. Slowly, the reddish-brown hue emerged.

The magic lay in time and sunlight.

The tannins needed time to ferment, and the sunlight acted as a natural fixer. Wait, didn’t the aunty say to dry it under the sun? I had heard her words, but I hadn’t truly listened.

He Return—and The Reality Check

Excited by my “breakthrough”, I returned to Sepetang with the dyed fabrics in hand, expecting applause. Instead, the same uncle who had shared his memories of Ni Siap with me frowned and said, “You made this? But nobody uses this anymore. Why go terbalik (backwards)? You went to university. Aren’t you supposed to invent something new, like a real scientist?”

His words stung. Just as I started spiralling into self-pity, I remembered the golden rule I’d just learnt: “Listen.” I returned to the stories, now with different ears. Unlike the luxurious fancy purple dyes worn by royalty,[6] Ni Siap represented labour. Fishermen, woodcutters and charcoal kiln workers wore it. The tannins made fabric water-resistant and long-lasting, a kind of protective layer against sun, sea and sweat.

Lim Kwe Siew, now in his 70s, recalled: “When I was 10, I went fishing in open boats—no roof, no cover. My mother made me clothes dyed with Ni Siap. On cold mornings and rainy days, it kept me warm, like a raincoat. Under the sun, it protected me from burns.”

In the same way, the Malay villagers call this dye getah bakau, and have long used it to samak (tan) cotton flour sacks for making baju air, the durable workwear of fishermen and charcoal workers. Pak Wahab explained: “Baju dan pukat… rendam dengan ini, jadikan dia kelat, kuat lagi. Memang tahan! Kalau tidak, baju kita kena selut, kena air, cepat koyak.”[7] Ni Siap was gritty, brown and tough—like the people who wore it.

With the arrival of synthetic fibres, nylon nets and cheap mass-produced clothing, its use has declined—dismissed as outdated, regarded as old-fashioned. Reclaiming its value means questioning and disrupting these entrenched narratives. So, I began teaching it in local schools, under the guise of kelas seni (art class) or kokurikulum (co-curricular activities). At the end of each session, I told my students to “go home and ask your grandparents for stories”.

One day, the same uncle who once called me terbalik showed up, grinning like a proud grandfather. His grandchildren had returned from school with a Ni Siap-dyed handkerchief, and he told them, “I’m the one who taught this to your teacher.”

No great change, but small conversations began—and that, to me, was enough. But the most transformative story wasn’t mine. It belonged to Yin.

Yin: The True Daughter of Sepetang

Tian Yin is a fourth-generation, true daughter of Kuala Sepetang. Yet, growing up, she had never heard of Ni Siap. Her father had worn it, dyed by her grandmother, but it was never mentioned. Like many others, it had quietly vanished from her family’s memory. Through Look Port Weld, Yin encountered Ni Siap for the first time. “Why did this tradition skip me?” she wondered.

In 2019, after participating in a local art market, Yin began experimenting—making soft toys, accessories and paintings using the dye. Yet, for her, it was never just about the product. “It’s about sharing stories—and inviting people to visit Sepetang.” Like the dye, Yin herself became a medium—connecting people, memories and the place.

Today, with a group of local women under the nurturing wing of Look Port Weld, Yin returned to the dye pots—just as generations before her had—but now with a renewed sense of purpose. She was on a mission to revive Ni Siap as a vibrant tradition woven into the daily lives and identities of her community.

In 2024, their group made waves at the Village Vision Pitching Competition[8] when it won the Outstanding Award, and secured grants to document the oral histories surrounding Ni Siap. With every interview and memory shared, the roots of their project grew stronger. Forgotten stories resurfaced, and they were carefully stitched back into the fabric of the present.

One of the most heartwarming, memorable moments is the fashion show in Sepetang—an event dreamed up, organised and brought to life by the community itself. Teenagers and grandmothers alike walked the runway, proudly wearing Ni Siap apparel. No longer just a rusty brown dye; Ni Siap is fashion!

The “Slow” Return of Ni Siap

Yin reflects that the “generations before were so much more environmentally friendly. They knew how to use what was around them. I want to revive that—slowly. It should happen naturally, not forced.”

I soon realised that Yin had mastered the true essence of Ni Siap: to flow with nature, with her people and with time. Like the dye, it must ferment slowly before revealing its richest colour.

Looking back on nearly a decade of Ni Siap under the care of Look Port Weld, what was done was more than the revival of a dye. It is about mending broken links and bridging the past with the present. It is about reclaiming identity and reimagining the future.

As for me, the outsider, the disrupter, I have since left the village and have learnt to listen better.

FOOTNOTES

[1] In Teowchew and Hokkien, Ni means dye, and Siap means gritty, or stringent. Nī Siàp was the name for the natural reddish-brown dye made from mangrove bark – once common in the village.

[2] Bandaranayake, W.M. (1998) Traditional and Medicinal Uses of Mangroves. Mangroves and Salt Marshes, 2,133-148. https://doi.org/10.1023/A:1009988607044org/10.1023/A:1009988607044

[3] Baba, S., Chan, H.T., & Aksornkoae, S. (2013). Useful products from mangrove and other coastal plants. ISME mangrove educational book series, 3, 45-47.

[4] Baeren, E. J., & Jusilin, H. (2019). Eksplorasi zat warna alami batik dalam konteks warna tradisi etnik di Sabah: Exploration natural batik color in context of color ethnic tradition in Sabah. Jurnal Kinabalu, 25, 71–87. https://doi.org/10.51200/ejk.v25i.2089

[5] Heemsoth, A. (2020, June 23). Mangrove tannin: What is it? Khaled bin Sultan Living Oceans Foundation. https://www.livingoceansfoundation.org/mangrove-tannin-what-is-it/

[6] Tyrian purple, made from the mucus of seasnails, was notoriously expensive to produce and was therefore reserved for the wealthiest classes, including emperors and nobles. See: Carnegie Museum of Natural History, “Born to the Purple,” https://carnegiemnh.org/born-to-the-purple/

[7] Translation: “Clothes and nets... soak them with this, it makes them less absorbent, and even stronger. Truly durable! Otherwise, our clothes get covered in mud, get wet, and tears easily.”

[8] https://www.villagevisionmy.com/vvpc2022