The Hollywood movie Dude, Where’s My Car? is a lowbrow comedy about a pair of dull-witted best friends who after a hard night’s partying find their car missing from its usual parking spot. Retracing their steps in a madcap odyssey to retrieve it, they encounter extraterrestrials, ostriches, a giant woman and a device disguised as a Rubik’s Cube that can destroy the universe.
Loathed by the critics, the movie has nevertheless won a cult following, while its title has become a fruitful source of puns. Documentary filmmaker Michael Moore, for example, wrote a satire on corporate America called Dude, Where’s My Country? I too have made a contribution to the genre with Dude, Where’s My Tree? In my case, it’s because I am indeed missing a tree.
Proof of hope
More than a decade ago, I attended an event to announce a ‘scientific breakthrough’ by a business repositioning itself as a firm believer in sustainability. At the event, certificates were handed out informing guests that seedlings of indigenous tree species had been planted in their honour. ‘This seedling is mine,’ declares the certificate, which has an identifying serial number printed on it. At the event, we are told that the seedlings can be found in a park in Malaysia.
I have received lots of logo-bearing pens, key chains, desk caddies, notebooks and paperweights during my years as a journalist, but this certificate was by far my most treasured corporate gift.
I keep it in a folder along with my exam result slips and certificates, a long-service award document, a certificate that says I ‘attempted to climb’ Mount Kinabalu but only reached the last station before the peak, a 34-year-old letter from Mensa Malaysia that shows how I fared in a test, a telegram from a university reminding me that its offer would lapse if I did not show up within two days, and my marriage certificate.
In my mind, my seedling was growing into a tall and strong tree that would pump precious oxygen into the atmosphere
In a small yet tangible way, the certificate affirms both my connection to Mother Nature and my place in the cycle of life. Sure, it is a fanciful notion, but it still gives comfort and hope.
In my mind, during that time my seedling was growing into a tall and strong tree that would pump precious oxygen into our ailing atmosphere, and play a role in water conservation, soil stabilisation and wildlife protection. You are most welcome, everybody.
But it was all illusory. After leaving full-time employment in 2020, I decided to visit my now teenaged tree. I did some research to pinpoint the park’s location – and learnt that the project has been drastically altered. According to an in-house publication, instead of planting trees at one site to develop a ‘gene bank’ with thousands of forest species, the company was going to spread the seedlings over the various areas of its operations.
I do not know the fate of my seedling. The certificate is still in the folder but I now have a tree-shaped hole in my life.
As I pine for my tree, I have acquired a touch of clarity on what it takes for businesses to meaningfully pursue the sustainability agenda. Grand gestures get the applause and kudos, and help increase awareness, but if they are not backed by commitment, passion, follow-through and transparency, then the companies making them risk being accused of not seeing the forest for the trees.
