by Dk. Siti Zulaikha Pg Hj Ishak.

There is an old ritual practiced by the children on my island that makes itself stubbornly known in the back of our minds when entering deep jungles. To kneel, rest our foreheads on the ground that once birthed us, and present a silent prayer of protection to the spirits that dwell there. Amongst many other habits, soil is smeared on the forehead as a symbolic portrayal of harmony between men with nature. On this island, it is believed that men were created by God from soil and are therefore part of the natural world. When I lead groups of international scientists and researchers into the field for Bornean projects, I often find myself hesitating at the ‘entrance’ for a short while, before gently requesting everyone to join in for a collective prayer (I try to leave out the soil smearing – balancing an image as a rational researcher and pseudo witch-doctor is delicate). I then list to them the specific plants we avoid out of socio-cultural or spiritual respect, and a laundry list of customs and rules that they must adhere to – including not pointing out appearances of large birds, strange noises such as whistling or singing, and keeping profanities to themselves.

More often than not, they don’t share the same faith – at times, even I question the extent of my own – yet, we collectively oblige in paying respect to my ancestors that practiced this custom before us, acknowledging the olden wisdom that once governed the island’s way of life. More than cosmic ornaments and multi-coloured accidents, my people view every single component of the natural world – from plants, rocks, rivers to entire weather systems – as alive and animated, both custodians and family, defining the very being our cultural beliefs and ultimately, of ourselves.

Brunei is a pea of a country, nestled on the north-west coast of the Borneo Island. Before the glare of electricity and roar of civilization, spirits were believed to walk the island just like people. They dwelled inside enormous trees full of cool, blue-green shade and in the dappled stillness; one could almost reach out and feel their silent glaring presence. When I was young, I used to rest on my grandmother’s lap listening to her reminisce the olden times. From her mouth issued visions of a past incensed with the smell of burning balsamic resin, immersed in the world of the ‘others’. My grandmother told me that my uncle was once lured off and hidden by a spirit. A congregation of holy men prayed ceaselessly for hours, and with a call of prayer, Budak Syam finally appeared atop the house’s zinc roof. The spirits of our folklore, including orang bunian or small, whistling ‘people’, hantu air, or water entities and jenglot or vampiric ghouls have long centralized strict rituals and taboos, which in turn, determined the extent of fear and admiration that people present to their environment.

The origin of these folklores is abundant – Borneo was home to almost 300 ethnic tribes at a point in history. When European colonisers brought preconceived notions of ethnicity to the island, they introduced a classification decree for administrative and census purposes; bounded units were created, labelled and further separated out in an attempt to stabilize what were formerly complex mixes of peoples. The criteria of classification were remarkably inconsistent and could not fit most of the population into defined ‘boxes’ – as a result, ‘other’ indigenous communities were randomly labelled, subjecting them to fluid processes of assimilation and eradication. In the late 19th century, Friedrich Blumenbach of Germany classified the brown-skinned Austronesians of highly diverse ethnological clusters into a one-dimensional category, the Malays, on the simplistic basis of sharing a Proto-Malayic language. Yet, the reality on the ground reflected only hyper-diversity: chronicles of various indigenous worlds adhering to animism, paganism or shamanism, including worships to the Sun and the Mountains, alongside Muslims that pray to the Prophet Muhammad and Allah.

Islam and a ‘standardizing’ process of Malayization became strictly institutionalized as the socio-spiritual basis of life in the last century; indigenous practices were tucked away within books or hushes of oral narration. Yet, out of eyesight and narrations of social norm, fragmented leftovers of native rituals are still practiced to this very day. I grew up avoiding bird’s nest ferns because we were warned of the malevolent female spirits that dwell within each of them; they remained pristine and abundant all over the country. The tropical vegetables in my garden are to be harvested with gentle plucks and sweet words, because tugging and taking away its produce would ‘offend’ the plant from further fruiting. Leftover food was buried (to ‘feed’ the soil) or thrown into the water (to feed the fishes) for those who lived on the main river, so as to ensure the circulation of rezeki, or ‘blessings’; an almost mystical take on composting. Just recently, I witnessed my brother bury his newborn daughter’s placenta and cut bellybutton under the soil of my favourite frangipani tree, to establish her continuity and communion with nature.

When I sat in my Master of Science program in Melbourne (2017), classes like Global Challenges and Sustainability, or Perspectives in Sustainability were generously inclusive of discussions for world-views of ‘others’ (rather, the non-whites): yet, when I did take centre stage, I constantly found myself struggling to articulate and compartmentalise the worldview of my island and our relationship with nature in a way that could fit the familiar conventional boxes of sustainability.

How do I express the preservation of our dominant Mangrove ecosystems due to factors such as spirits, ghouls and ghosts – in ‘sophisticated’ discussions of island bionetwork, ecosystem services, and environmental impact management?

How do I explain the intricate centralization of customs and rituals, and significance of using language of situ that can ensure community engagement for a strong bottom-up stewardship approach?

It was not my first interaction with these conflicts – during my bachelor’s degree, I majored in both environmental studies as well as geography and development. I was fascinated by the intersection of people and nature, and I had a close mentor, Dr. K. W. who introduced environmental philosophies and the deeper realms of spirit, people and nature. I wrote up my final year dissertation after four years of interdisciplinary immersion, attempting to articulate the sustainable symbiotic relationship between the former headhunting Iban tribe of Brunei and their environment. To the Iban community, their consumption of the natural world is a sacred intertwining; to live is to live the life of another; to live in and through the life that others have been able to construct and invent; a sort of paratism or universal cannibalism that belongs to the domains of all living. In their world, everything is mixed with everything and nothing is ontologically separated from the rest. In my thesis defence, I described epics and folklores, from their bird-god Sengalang Burong, the traditions of Gawai Kenyalang or ‘hornbill festival’ to how the Iban myths believed that crickets determine the sex of children, that trees talk, and pots cry out to be hugged. I explained, perhaps unsophisticatedly then, how the Iban cosmology resulted in a high level of respect and protection of the environment – only to be met by confused and unconvinced faces of the thesis panel. I graduated well, but uncertain that I could bring my argument anywhere.

In seeking a more specific guidance, I turned to political ecology for answers. I was introduced by my supervisor, Dr. J. Y. to the complexities of traditional ecological knowledge (TEK), a euro-centric approach to what I have been looking at academically for the last 4 years, and my entire upbringing: the intersection between human and nature in a systematic relationship of support and network. I witnessed Dr. J’s TEK experience with tribes from across the world, as I outlined my own newfound understanding for Sabah’s Bajau tribe and their water world. It was a triumphant moment of not needing to mistranslate folk nomenclature in the bigger picture of policy writing and stewardship. So I thought. I returned to Brunei determined to write our TEK.

But when I explored the indigeneity of Brunei for TEK foundation, it came with the dawning realisation that I too, am an Indigenous Belait.

Though it might seem bizarre, it was not uncommon in my country – rapid ethnic oscillation is a consistent phenomenon almost invisible to everyone. The establishment of the Brunei Darussalam’s National Act of 1961 ‘officiated’ the 7 puak jati or members of Malay ‘race’ in the country, including the people of Belait (or Balayt), Bisayah (or Bisaya), Brunei (or Barunay), Dusun, Kedayan (or Kadayan), Murut and Tutong (or Tutung) (King, 1982). As a wide social acceptance, Muslims of the country were considered ‘Malay’ – and vice versa. Yet it is this casual ‘consideration’ that blurred out the truthful reflection of ethnic identities and histories. I knew from my national identity card, that I was ‘Malay’ – I’ve identified with it my entire life, without qualms. There were unexamined assumptions in my life that I took for granted; that my Malay family across the straits shared similar folklore but did not practice the rituals that my Brunei Malay family did. My father, born of Balayt mother and Barunay father, has rereferred to himself as Malay all of his life – and so have I. Yet we shared less history with the Malaydom of Southeast Asia and experienced more eccentric commonalities with the indigenous communities in the country. Though we grew up thinking we were one people who did the same – the Malay ‘race’ – in reality, we exist beyond the 7 puak jati and our unique Indigenous rituals were watered down in its significance. We practiced different TEKs. We saw different cosmologies.

I put forth the ultimate question: to what extent can we rejuvenate these indigenous TEK into policy writing and stewardship, in a country where the Malay-Islamic Monarchy is its official philosophy – in a country where people may not be aware of their own ethnic-oscillation process?

It is these realisations and breakthroughs in identities of self, and of my island family, that have led my desire to pursue a truthful reflection for a meaningful portrayal of Brunei through my graduate study. In my extensive journey of decolonizing thought processes and re-engaging in discussions of indigeneity and representation from a fresh perspective, empowering the people of my country feels more imperative than ever before. To guide their stewardship along NRM policies that are steeped in culture and beliefs familiar to them has the potential to create long-lasting changes in preserving our environment.

These days, when I employ discussions of community-based management in socio-ecological systems, I think often of my late grandfathers and the superstitions we share. On our little island, continued greetings and prayers to the jungle floor could determine the overall fate of our natural world in the future. At least I like to dreamily think so.