FACE AND VOICE

A story from the heart of Borneo  

 I am busy working with my laptop at the office when I hear a knock on the door. A middle age woman wearing loose pants, a dark blouse with a flower pattern and a brown hijab is standing in front of the door. 

 “Do you have any old clothes?” ys “I am a victim of the fire on Kalimantan street.” 

Really? 

I know that three days ago a big fire burned more than eighty buildings, including houses, schools and a mosque and more than 480 people lost their homes and possessions. Last night, my team and I had collected food and clothes, and the packages were being delivered that morning. 

“Please sit down,” I say, as I motion toward the green plastic chair next to my desk. She sinks into the chair, sighing. Then she tells me her story.

Her name is Inur. She’s originally from Tanjung town, which is quite far from here, in a neighbouring province.  She has been living in Palangka Raya for thirty-five years. I learned that she had a brother, but he had already passed away. She has four children. The oldest is seventeen years old and due to be married soon. Her husband passed away eight years ago after a long struggle with liver disease. Since that time, she has worked as a single mother taking care of her four kids. Every day, she looks for Kalakaiand kangkung(both are kinds of vegetable that grows wild mostly in tropical peatland) to sell in the traditional market. The money she earns is only enough for food, not sufficient to pay for education. Her four children had to stop going to school. 

“Even if I want to go back to my hometown, it’s difficult because I have no family there anymore,” she says. 

Some apprehensions enter my mind. Is it true that this woman was a victim of the fire a few days ago or is she a beggar who is pretending so she can take advantage of me? It’s almost unbelievable to me that someone would walk more than seven kilometers just to get old clothes. 

 As her story continues, I discover she is not lying.

 “I was encouraged to come here after getting advice in Flamboyan,” she says. “They told me, ‘You can try going to peoples' houses to ask for help.’ You see the donations distributed through the relief station is not reliable and seems to be given to the affected families unfairly. I have not changed my clothes for the last three days since the fire. I have no possessions.” 

“How come?” I ask. “I read in the newspaper that people donated and brought clothes to the location. Even this morning my friends are going to bring some boxes of old clothes and food to the relief station.”

 “We never received these donations.  All the donated clothes are given to those who stay near the relief camp. We get the leftover clothes that cannot be worn or aren’t the right size. Sometimes people sort the clothes and choose the best clothes to be given to their families. They are also victims, yes, but so far, people like me and my children, we’ve gotten nothing.”

“What about food?” I ask. “This morning I read in the newspaper that every affected family has received donations like noodles, rice, and two litres of oil. The government should also provide a public kitchen in the relief camp. Did that happen?” 

 “Yes, they gave us yellow rice (a kind of traditional food, made from rice cooked with turmeric and coconut milk), but there was a lot ofratik(pebble dirt) in it. I got a stomachache and diarrhea after eating it, and so did my children. A few days ago they gave us two kilos of rice. We made porridge with salt.” Her voice broke. “Today we only have one cup of rice left, and we will cook porridge again for our last meal.”

I ask more questions. She tells me another story.

Inur’s now-burned wooden dorm known as barrack. In order to stay there, she sold her earrings which was her last treasure and worked hard to get  two million rupiah, which she then used to pay the rent for the room for the next two years. She was just three months living in the Barak when the fire happened. The government actually gave an amount of money as compensation to those who lived in the barrack, but money is still with the owner. She never received it. Now Inur and her three small children stay and sleep on a mat—their only remaining possession—in the kitchen of a family in Flamboyan. 

Unfortunately, the lady of the house is not friendly to them. It is her husband that offered them a place to stay. This poor mother and her children were given only ten days to stay in the kitchen of this family’s house, then they have to leave. When her family is hungry, Inur cooks porridge on the ground using dry branches and a wok. With hope in her heart, this fifty-three-year-old woman just walked from 6 a.m. and arrived at my office at 8:15 a.m.

“You must be very tired,” I say. “I have some rice in the kitchen.  Do you want coffee? I will make it for you now.”

 I notice her eyes are getting teary.

“No. I cannot eat anything now. It’s just, my heart cannot do that because my children have not eaten anything yet as well. I wish to have money now. I want to go back to Tanjung.”

 She breaks down in tears. 

“My son had some savings in his piggy bank. Every day, he would put one or two thousand rupiah in it. But it was also burned. He had no chance to grab it when we ran to escape the fire.”

I hug her. She’s crying uncontrollably at this stage. She strikes me as a strong woman and a brave mother. I cannot disapprove her disappointment to the Barak owner or the people in relief camp and the lady whose house she is staying at. 

Inur tells me she has  a friend who is also a victim, but she already went back to her home village. While telling me about her friend, Inur cries and sobs Clearly, she is so sad and so lonely. 

My feeling for this woman is more than sympathy. I know exactly how it feels to be a victim of a fire and lose all your possessions. When I was in second grade, our house caught on fire. Only my mother and me were  home at that time. It was 3 a.m. when we escaped from the blazing flames that engulfed our wooden house. It took only a few minutes to burn. My memory is so clear. I was five years old, wearing pyjamas, running out of the house while screaming for help. I cannot forget the image of a man running toward us in the darkness of the pre-dawn, to help my mother who was trying to save our motorbike. She was wearing only a sarong and got some burns on her arm. 

 I cannot forget the feeling.  My mother and I, together with the other villagers, watched with our own eyes how the fire burned and destroyed our lovely home. We heard explosions, which was no doubt from the fire consuming electronic devices. I was just a little girl and clearly remember weeping and saying, “My clothes, Mom, my clothes.”  

We had to be evacuated to a relative’s house. Then at 6 am, when we came back to check on the condition of the house, I remembered being carried by a young woman who could not handle all the crying as we saw all our possessions now turned to ash and dark ruins. 

A relative bought me a pretty blue dress with sunflowers and a little ribbon on the side. I was so happy!  It was the only dress I had, and I wore it for two days. Even in those two days, I did not have underwear. I was so sad remembering my clothes, toys and books all gone forever.  All burned. It took a long time for donations to start coming in from fellow villagers. I wore all secondhand clothes for the next three months when we stayed in the barrack while we waited for the new house to be built. I remember three favourites among the donations. A white dress with a wide collar, a pillow and a bolster for a baby!

These stories, both Inur’s story and mine, are a reflection that being a victim of a fire is not an ordinary matter. Often, when we hear the news of someone’s house burning, we stop for a while and reflect on it and we feel profoundly sorry, but then we forget. Or we can sit on our couch in the morning or read the newspaper about a fire somewhere, while drinking coffee, shaking our head then go off to the office just like a typical day. We are programmed to think there must be a lot of people already providing  help to those fire victims.  We read about food and clothing donations pouring in.  We believe the government is compensating for the loss and there is no need to involve ourselves any further. We think it’s okay because there are so many people around the world experiencing the same kind of thing and nothing is especially worthy of this case to get our attention. Believe me, if it is your home that is blazing and turning to ashes, you will never feel okay.

It never feels okay to see your home destroyed and burned. 

The island 

October 26, 2016

Who is that girl that I see, staring back  at me. When will my reflection show who I am inside?

The answer is in our hands. We can't choose where we are born, but we can decide how to live every single day in a meaningful way. 

 Tonight, at Pecha Kucha Night, I shared the stage with five awesome people from various careers and spoke to hundreds of people from different backgrounds and countries. Only a few seconds before I took my first step on stage, my heart beat very fast. Not because of being nervous, but because it was so unbelievable and such an honorable moment to stand and speak for my people, my land, my generation and the Kingdom as well. 

At opportunities like this, I would bow and turn my head upward, saying, "Who am I, Lord? I'm just a village girl!" I used to be a shy girl who would hold a pity party when I didn't get what I liked or wanted. But tonight, I am brave and confident enough to say, as I always say, "We are not ashes. We are gold."

I was born in Muara Teweh, North Barito, Central Kalimantan.  Kalimantan is the Indonesian side of the island of Borneo. It is the third largest island in the world and the largest in Asia. Actually, the island is known by many names. While internationally it is known as Borneo, we the Indonesian people call it Kalimantan, a name derived from the Sanskrit word Kalamanthana, meaning “burning weather island” which describes its hot, humid, tropical weather. Earlier in AD 977, ancient Chinese used the term Po-nito refer to Borneo. The Indians named BorneoSuvarnabhumi (land of gold) while the Javanese call it Puradvipa,which means Diamond island. 

 It is believed that Borneo is the name given by the British and Dutch colonists. The north part of the island belongs to Malaysia and Brunei, while the southern part belongs to Indonesia. For us, we prefer to use Kalimantan, rather than Borneo (which refers to the whole island) when referring to our homeland. It merely is a nationalism and identification reason. 

 According to ancient Chinese, Indian and Japanese manuscripts, western coastal cities of Borneo were trading ports by the first millennium BC. Various natural resources like wood, gold, spices, rattan and products from animals and birds such us hornbill ivory, rhinoceros horn and (edible) birds’ nests were described as some the most valuable items from the island. 

 The Borneo rainforest is estimated to be around 140 million years old, making it one of the oldest rainforests in the world. It is the centre of the evolution and distribution of many endemic species of plants and animals, and one of a few remaining natural habits for the endangered orangutan. There are thousands of big and small rivers across the island. Geographically, it is surrounded by the South China Sea to the north and northwest, the Sulu Sea to the northeast, the Celebes Sea and the Makassar Strait to the south, while to the west, lies the Malay Peninsula. Because the island is located right in the middle of South East Asian,  many cultural and political influences affect the original people. 

 Dayaks are known as the main indigenous people of the land. There are more than 400 sub-ethnic tribes spread over the whole island, each with its own dialect, customs, laws, territory and culture which are identifiable. While in Indonesia, we refer to our ethnic race as, for example, Dayak Ngaju, Dayak Maanyan, Dayak Kenyah and Dayak Iban etc.  The Dayaks in Malaysia are called directly by the name of their sub-ethnic group without adding the word Dayak. They will say, “I am an Iban,” or “I am a Dusun.” I realized this when I had a discussion with some activists from Malaysia and they stated, “It is interesting how you are so proud to identify yourself with the Dayak term.” 

“Why?”

 “Because here in Malaysia, people do not use that term. If you say ‘Dayak’, or ‘Dayak people,’ it has a bad connotation, almost humiliating. According to them, Dayak is a term that was used by the colonists to humiliate the original people.” 

 I can see how colonialism still leaves scars and division on the indigenous people.

Disappearing language means killing of an identity

I belong to the Dayak Maanyan ethnic group.  My people live along a tributary of the Barito River. South Barito and East Barito are the heart of Maanyan country. I was born in North Barito and lived there until I was five years old, among the communities that speak Banjar. Although all of my family speak my mother tongue, Maanyan, my sisters and I did not. It was simply because the communities and our friends spoke Banjar. When I moved to South Barito, where ninety percent citizens of the city are Maanyan, I found a similar thing. People of my age were mostly speaking Banjar even though they are Maanyan. 

 My parents speak Maanyan at home. I spoke Maanyan in the community and to a few friends who also communicated to me in Maanyan.  My sister and I  always communicated in Banjar. It was because we have had this preference since childhood. 

One day, when I was fifteen years old, while we were having a family dinner, our dad spoke.

“I do not agree with you using Banjar language rather than Maanyan at home. Even in the community, we need to use Maanyan language.”

“Why?” I asked. “It is a habit for me and Melisa to converse in Banjar. I can speak Maanyan fluently to anyone as well if I wish.”

 “That’s the point. Why do you prefer to use Banjar while you are a Maanyan? It shows to me that you are colonized by Banjar people.”

 Jleb! His harsh words stabbed me right in the heart. 

It is true. When we speak Maanyan in high school, some friends will say, “See? You start to talk in an alien language!”

Their parents are Maanyan. Their grandparents are Maanyan. They will have their wedding in Maanyan tradition. 

My father's words have remained with to this day, ten years later. I have come to learn there is a cold war between the Dayak and Banjar people, which still remains. It stems from history and events from the past. I learned how Banjar people are actually not the original people of the land but come from somewhere in the archipelago then lived on the island of Borneo for more than a thousand years, so they are considered people of the land as well. The Banjar Kingdom was established under Demak kingdom, an Islam Kingdom based in Java, which destroyed former kingdoms and converted people to Islam. According to the sources I studied, there was a tense relationship between the Dayak and Banjar, especially Dayak Ngaju. It is because the Dayak Ngaju lived upstream and, in the jungle, while Banjar people connected to the outside world on the coast and worked closely in trading with the British and Portuguese.

At that time, the Banjar dominated the Dayak in all aspects. The discrimination and humiliation then continued for the next hundred years. Even though now the relationship between the Dayak and Banjar is good especially since the two united forces and went to war against the colonists in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, this domination leaves the Dayaks, especially the youth, to have somewhat of an identity crisis. The wound now reopens.  It is something for which we now have a particular word.  We call it bullying.

If you speak your mother tongue, you will be bullied.

If you speak Bahasa in the thickest Dayak accent, you will be bullied as well. I still remember how hard we laughed at our school principal when he gave a speech. We laughed because of his accent.

Also, it is considered boasting if you use Bahasa, and cool when you speak Banjar. 

 Laughing at someone’s accent is a practice that still happens today. The most ridiculous thing is, the ones who bully are not the outsiders but the Dayak. 

The truth is, a stigma about the Dayak being a primitive group and unskilled is not coming only from the last decade but from hundreds of years ago. Even though we may not be aware of why, it is rooted inside of us. I have seen so many young people who are ashamed of speaking their mother tongue or pretend not to know how to speak their mother tongue. Some people go to Java to study, and once they come back, they have already forgotten their mother tongue. Why? I am not sure who is to blame, the parents or the children. Ten years ago, my father’s words hit me right in my core. I am so grateful for that now. I have changed and become someone who is super proud of my identity as an indigenous Dayak woman. Somehow if I look at the past, the way I was in my youth, being ashamed of using my mother tongue in public or to admit that I am a Maanyan, this strikes me as outrageous and sad at the same time. 

 I was lucky to work on a film project, "The Answers Project,”  whose objective was to document indigenous elder’s wisdom and film it in their spoken mother tongue. The director, Tim Carl Rose, told me about his experience documenting the Suar tribe in Ecuador. "There are not many young people in the indigenous communities there," he said. "They move to the city for study or work and speak Mexican rather than Suar.  Because of this movement, the original languages start to disappear."  I can feel the fear here.  A similar thing is happening to my tribe. There is something that needs to be uncovered here.  My experience is helping me to learn more why, and how to solve it. 

Maanyan country 

It is 1p.m. While I’m working on my laptop accompanied by a cup of coffee, my cousins and uncles in Talekoi village are just finishing rubber tapping and are about to go home. Some of them may be fishing in the lake to get tanriya,a local fish, for dinner tonight.

 I did not grow up there. Talekoi is my mother’s home village, and most of my grandparents’ children have raised their own children and continue to live there. My mother is the only one who chose not to stay because of her work as a civil servant. When I was a child, during the holidays, I often went there for a week and joined my uncles and aunties in their rubber garden. We would leave at 6a.m. and come back home at 1p.m.  My uncle has one hectare of land and hundreds of rubber trees. In earlier times, around twenty years ago, villagers would wake up at 3a.m. and go rubber tapping. It was because they wanted to finish in the morning and then work in the field in the afternoon or go fishing. 

Let me explain a bit about rubber tapping. To get the rubber you need to scratch the tree’s bark using pe’et, a tool made from a sharp blade with a wooden handle.  You need to carve a specific pattern so the latex will flow into a baliwang, cup or bowl to retain the drops of latex through a tukil, a dry leaf which is folded and attached to the lower tip of the tree bark pattern. 

 Usually, after scratching all the trees, everyone takes a rest and eats some snacks brought from home and waits about 30 minutes for the latex to flow. Then it’s time to collect the bukat,(dry latex) from the baliwangusing a bucket. 

After collection, the latex is poured into a square container and mixed with riu wangi,a traditional concoction made from water and chopped-up pineapple fruit or leaf. This ingredient makes the latex solid and forms a square shape. The next day it’s moved to a small pool to wait to be sold. 

The smell of this solid latex is very strong.  It is rather unpleasant, and we would often joke that it was, “the smell of money.” All production and collection stops when it rains.  You can no longer tap the rubber trees because the rain would mix with the latex and spill out from the trees. 

Every time I went to the village and joined my uncle and aunty to tap rubber, they would give me fifty thousand Indonesian rupiah  before I came back to the city. Until now one thing that they always remember about me is my mihantas habit while tapping rubber. I always walked through the bushes and let it scratch my legs while actually there was a safer path in the forest. Sometimes I just miss this moment. 

I used to hate fishing because I have no patience.  I don't like waiting. In my culture, we have so many ways of fishing. There is one method that I really love. This fishing is not like the usual fishing where you have a hook and a line. Instead, we use a small scoop which is made from rattan. Then we walk in the shallow river and scoop up the small fish or catch shrimps. This is called nikep.

I really love nikep. I remember once when my cousins and I went to the shallow river in Talekoi Village where there is a lot of small fish moving in groups. We ran from behind, and the fish would jump to the surface, just like mini dolphins dancing in the clear flowing water surrounded by primary, pure forest. What a wonderful sight! 

 I grew up in a village which transitioned to be a town. While other kids from the other villages knew how to swim from the age of five, I did not because there was no river nearby.  I went to high school in town and studied for my bachelor’s degree in the city. I met so many people and learned so many things inside and outside the class. I was involved in a multitude of activities and had a lot of exposure to the wider community. To be honest, I was pretty hard on myself as I was growing into my adult self and defining myself in my profession. I always knew when to talk and when not to, and I was very careful with my words. I still make daily, weekly and monthly goals to elevate my growth and reach my vision. Discipline and a fighting spirit have become the keys to gaining what I want. I met so many wonderful and inspiring people from different backgrounds, different cultures and different countries and I also travelled. Overall, I feel that I have experienced many good things in life. 

But from all my experiences and achievements, nothing compares to the feeling I get when I sit together and spend time with my Dayak Maanyan brothers and sisters.  Usually, when there is a ceremony, we will gather in the house, relax with coffee and biscuits and tell stories. There are so many stories. You can easily see the passion when a Maanyan tells a story.  The storyteller uses so many  movements and facial expressions!  We also play cards and have big batteries tied to a rope, which are made into earrings as punishment for the ones who lose.  Sometimes we use the clasp, and yes it hurts but it’s so funny! Then we will perform nanrik nampak, and everyone, including the children, will sing, dance and play music. This can go on for a whole day and night!

During my time studying for my bachelor’s degree in Palangka Raya, people who met me for the first time would often say, “Are you a Maanyan?” 

It was kind of mysterious for me at first, as there are so many Dayak sub-tribes on the island of Kalimantan. How could they identify me so accurately? When I asked, usually they would answer, “Your skin tone and facial features show it.”

Indeed, my skin is  whiter and paler  than that other sub-tribes, and we tend to have smaller eyes and sometimes chubby cheeks. We tend to have a subtle nose, not so sharp, and most specifically we have attractive facial features and carry a somewhat innocent expression. Maybe this is not the best way to explain it, but when I look at my fellow Maanyan sisters and brother, then I realize what they say is true.

The second way to define a Maanyan is through artistic expression. One day, a friend who was a singer came to me and asked, “Why do Maanyan people always have good voices, and they can dance well?”

 “Really? I don’t think so.”

“It’s real and I have met many Dayak Maanyan people, and they all can sing well.”

“Well, maybe it is by chance.”

“No. You see, most of the best musicians in this city are Maanyan or have Maanyan blood from the mother or father’s side.” She started to mention the names of some people. “And the dancing!  It is very difficult to find anyone from your tribe who cannot dance. It is like you guys have that natural talent for art in your blood.”

It has taken me twenty-four years of my life to realize that we really have ‘that’ in our blood. 

Nan Sarunai Kingdom 

Erang hila aku manyiangan lengan

rueh makis kuai lungai natui leut

daya erang hila aku ngunreh santabe’en

bangat tatui leut kuai nguku lagi sumangaten

Once upon a time, there was an ancient Kingdom called Nan Sarunai which means, The Most Famous One. Yes, it was famous for its golden treasures and land resources. People were prosperous and happy. The king and the people really loved to sing and dance. Every day musical instruments were played and people would dance and sing happily. One of the most famous instruments was the flute with seven holes called a Sarunai. With strong brotherhood and simplicity, the kingdom lasted for more than a thousand years. One day, troops from another kingdom with strong military power, attacked Nan Sarunai Kingdom. People scattered and ran to escape.  The king was killed, and all the treasures were taken. Nothing was left. The Majapahit troop destroyed everything and built a new Hindu kingdom. This tragedy is told from generation to generation by the wadian (a shaman in Maanyan culture) in the form of a song called Nan Sarunai Usak Jawa which is always sung in the death ceremony, the highest ceremony in Maanyan tradition.

Nansarunai takam rome usak Jawa

Ngamang talam takam lulun unggah guruh

Nansarunai takam galis kuta apui

Ngamang talam takam jarah sia tutung

Nansarunai takam wadik jari danau

Ngamang talam takam wandui janang luyu

Hang manguntur takam galis em’me angang

Kuda langun takam jarah mangalongkong

Suni sowong kala tumpuk tanan olun

Wayo wotak alang gumi punei lului 

The Dayak Maanyan is one of the oldest tribes which built their own kingdom in very ancient times. Their history goes back a long way. While the Kutai Kingdom in East Kalimantan is noted as the oldest kingdom in the archipelago, research in 1996 carried out on the ruins of a temple found in South Kalimantan which once belonged to Nan Sarunai territory, shows that Nan Sarunai existed in 200 BC. It means that Nan Sarunai Kingdom is six hundred years older than Kutai Kingdom, which was built in the fourth century. 

The Majapahit Kingdom itself was the biggest, most influential and most famous Hindu Kingdom in Indonesian history. Its territory included Semenanjung Malaya, Tumasik (Singapore) and a half of the Philippine peninsula. It also traded and had a diplomatic relationship with Kamboja, Siam (Thailand), Vietnam, even sending their ambassadors to Tiongkok. 

Batang nyi’ai ka’i hawi tamurayo

Telang nyilone’o jaku taleng uan

Anak nanyo ka’i hawi ngayak kaleh

Bunsu lungai ne’o jaku ngisor runsa

Ngunu ngugah pasong teka watang tenga

Hamen bingkang kilit iwo pakun monok

Muru pitip Nansarunai ngunu hulet mengalungkung

Ngamang talam takam tantau nuruk nungkai

Hang manguntur takam kala buka payung

Kudalangun takam alang bagun tang’ngui

Jam’mu ahung takam kawan rum’ung rama

Luwai hewo padu ipah bawai wahai

According to the history, after the attack of Nan Sarunai, Majapahit built a new Hindu kingdom known as Dipa kingdom. Through internal conflict, this kingdom then later changed to be called Daha kingdom, a kingdom which later was known as Banjar Kingdom after the Majapahit was destroyed by the Demak kingdom, the first Islamic kingdom in the archipelago. 

It is fascinating to me because before I had learned of this long history, I questioned why I always got an uncomfortable feeling, like a wound in my heart, toward the Javanese. I don’t mean to be racist. I love Javanese people and most of my best friends are Javanese. And the most influential people in my life are Javanese. However, I know there has always been an inkling of something which made me feel a little unsettled.  It is not only because of the transmigration policy made by the Soeharto regime, the first president, where he sent Javanese people to Kalimantan to invade our land and resources for his own political agenda, but I notice this unpleasant feeling toward also exists in most Maanyan people. When I found out about Nan Sarunai Usak Jawa, I started to realize that it is indeed true that the experiences from your ancestors and forefathers do flow in your bloodline.  

 However, this wound or feeling is not something that I really focus on. We need to learn to forgive and let go of the past so we can move on, right? If I do not move on then, this book could change to be an Indonesian kingdom history book. 

The fact that my kingdom, Nan Sarunai was the oldest kingdom in the archipelago makes me so proud. Hey, we are an important piece of Indonesian history! I hope one day the Ministry of Education will include this in our history lessons. The school history books do not mention this. My discovery about this kingdom makes me sure that my ancestors were really expert in singing and dancing, and my friend was right when she said that, “it is already in our blood.”

Until today I still feel this power and passion every time the Maanyan perform their traditional dance, especially the Dadas Bawo dance. Dadas is the name for the female dance and Bawo for male dance. Both of the dancers wear at least three pairs of large bracelets on both wrists and dance beautifully following the rhythm, beat and music produced by traditional instruments. This is not an easy dance because you need to learn how to sound the bracelet. I started to do this dance when I was eleven years old. I still practice it  now, though not as intensely as when I was younger. For me, dancing is not a skill that I have to endure, practice and learn.  It is merely a part of my identity. It comes very naturally for me. 

 I have pleasant memories of my adventures in the village. However, it just feels like such a long time ago now.   It is also so sad to see the present young generation becoming so ignorant and disinterested in anything related to cultural heritage. Globalism is something that we cannot avoid, and modernism is something good when we know how to filter it and put it in its place. 

I am proud of my indigenous identity, but that does not mean I have to live in the jungle without electricity forever. Indonesia has  more than 1,340 tribes (2010 data).Some of these tribes decide to live in the forest and avoid contact with the outside world. But many tribes are still rooted strongly to their culture and customary law, yet they also build connections with the outside world and accept technology and change. Most tribes are really open. 

There are always pros and cons in preserving the culture and making their ancestors’ heritage last, and when an indigenous person needs to cross the lines by embracing urban world. I get so many questions about how I manage to face this modernism and still fight for the dignity of indigenous people. Dealing with people especially those who are from a high class group and have no experience with indigenous peoples can be very challenging. Some people can be very demeaning and make negative comments because I wear a modern short skirt sometimes, a t-shirt and colour my hair.

 I am not a lesser Dayak when I wear a t-shirt and more Dayak when I wear bark skin. You can never judge an indigenous person by his/her appearance! This is a label that has been put on indigenous people for centuries by people around the world. It is also one of the leading causes of degradation in indigenous communities especially amongst young people, trying to flee from who they are. To be real, how many of us are not affected by what people say? Yes, we do think about people’s opinion but there is a difference between “thinking about it” and “worrying about it.” 

I like to guess what is on people’s minds whenever they see me dressed in a traditional outfit or ripped-up jeans and a t-shirt. Even when it comes to a traditional costume, it is not so traditional nowadays. Some people like to see something unusual--something they can never find in a shopping mall. However, I am never happy with the idea that an indigenous person must wear attire from a thousand years ago just to show his or her identity. Why do we have to present a persona of our tribal identity? Is it so outside people can identify us easily? A typical reaction means a long que forms and a photo opportunity is created.   

This evening I scrolled through Instagram and found featured photographs of Central Kalimantan. One of the pictures got my attention as it showcased a woman laying down on a jukung (traditional boat). She was wearing heavy makeup and a big crown with seven long jue feathers (Kalimantan peacock) to show Dayak culture. She was stunning with proportional curves (I guess a professional model). Her gown was also stunning. But the pose she styled showed her thighs and legs. 

Because the photo was taken from above, she looks like she is not wearing underwear. 

This can be so right or so wrong. I remember a few months ago, there were protests over a famous Indonesian designer by Minangkabau people because of the use of a Suntiang, Minang traditional wedding crown (used in a traditional ceremony) in a fashion show. The model wore a kebaya which was modified to be modern, with open shoulder and transparent. Minang people protested continuously, saying that the Suntiang cannot be worn carelessly especially with ‘impolite’ clothes, because all Minang accessories come from the philosophy of their culture which is built based on Islam syari’ah, including requiring closed clothing for both men and women.

Some people have the opinion that it is okay to modernize the culture to enhance its beauty and promote it to the world. What is needing to be promoted? Is it to call more investors? Who will be benefitting? Just to let you know, we have more than enough. There are currently more than 150 companies in Central Kalimantan alone.  NGOs are working on collecting the data of how many palm oil, mining and logging companies operate in Kalimantan. The data is difficult to compile because many of them are illegal. Still, they pollute the rivers, clear the land, and burn the forest. 

Capitalism reigns and destroys many things. The saddest thing is, when there are not enough resources to be exploited, what next?  When our culture is commercialized, what next?  While those powerful people enjoy their money and power in comfort, we, the local indigenous people have to race against the fires that burn every year on our land before it catches our rubber trees and houses. 

 It never feels okay to see your home destroyed and burned.

from book Me, Modernism & My Indigenous Roots (2018), chapter 1