Decision-making and political cleavages within villages

17Across almost every village, whether Kenyah or Penan, discussions with respondents revealed obstacles to effective communication and consensus building. Almost unanimously, village inhabitants from both ethnic groups expressed discontent with the improper representation inherent to the selection of headmen, and the subsequent decisions made by the mostly government-appointed headmen. Also labelled ketua kampung,9 the village headman makes most of the daily life decisions which affect the village as a whole, including regarding land use and resource management issues, and acts as the intermediary between residents and government entities. Headmen are supported by village steering committees, or Jalatan Keselamatan Kampung (JKK) panels, which are also elected10 and typically contribute to smaller-scale decision-making. Ultimately, the headman has the last word in decisions.

18Terms are, according to the rules laid by the District Office and inherited from colonial governance structures, to last for an initial period of five years, followed by an additional three years if desired by the community, amounting to a total of eight years maximum.11

19The approval of a submitted incumbent elected by majority voting systematically has to be submitted to the District Office, which often delayed the decisions for years or outright denied it. In these cases, government-appointed headmen were set up by the Office, who were rarely physically present to lead the village, and, in some cases, not originally from the community which they were to represent. It was often mentioned that government-appointed leaders, such as headmen but also penghulu and temenggong12, consistently failed to represent community interests.

20In the Kenyah village of Long Semiyang, the death of the former headman prompted an election process for which two candidates, and subsequently voting results, were communicated to the District Officer to no avail. The latter then went on to appoint a temporary headman, not originating from the village and who did not relocate to Long Semiyang during his incumbency. The temporary headman was reported to ‘act like the permanent tua kampung and be aggressive’, ‘only informing his supporters [amounting to 15 per cent of villagers] of decisions’.13 Intravillage rifts often arise between followers of locally elected and government-appointed headmen, with the former usually described to act as unofficial leader, recognised by his majority supporters. Various villages evoked divisions between followers, with government-appointed officials hardly channelling information back to villagers. In other cases, in the image of the Kenyah village of Long Tungan, the headman was elected by majority voting but overstayed his term. ‘He said he will try and resign if he is not good enough: “give me three years”. Now he has been headman for forty years. [...] Before the end of every term he goes to the District Officer and tells him that people want him to stay.’14 When approached by our NGO guide, the headman in question refused to speak to us.

21According to ‘key representatives’ of communities, as labelled by NGOs, villages are often divided into two groups, following two leaders. These two sides were often divided between some believing that only government-initiated projects should be supported, while others believe that their interests are best represented by NGOs. For this reason, these representatives estimated that some government-appointed headmen may not ‘dare’ to agree with the UBFA project.15

22Beyond the pro-elected versus pro-appointed divide was a parallel line of affiliation: pro-NGO versus pro-government. As evoked by a respondent, ‘hornbill supporters are scared of NGOs’, in reference to the iconic tropical bird and cultural symbol of Sarawak indigenous people, which happens to be the emblem of the incumbent ruling coalition, Gabungan Parti Sarawak (GPS) [Sarawak Parties Alliance]. GPS flags, as well as those of the Parti Sarawak Bersatu (PSB) [United Sarawak Party], the main opposition party in the state, were displayed in various villages.

Figure 5 GPS logo

Figure 6 PSB logo

23Another important cleavage in village decision-making was that opposing village dwellers and Miri residents. Lack of employment and economic opportunities prompted many villagers to resettle to the closest town of Miri, only braving the eight to nine hours-long tumultuous ride back home a few times per year. The headman of Lepo Tau, a section of the Kenyah village of Long Moh, where only 50 of the 2000 to 3000 villagers are full-time residents, expressed his disappointment in seeing so many young people leaving for the city.16 Some other villages, such as the Kenyah village of Long Semiyang, had less striking rates of rural exodus, with 200 permanent residents out of a total of 600.17 In the Penan village of Long Kerong, the government-appointed headman, who had only received four votes as opposed to the 49 collected by his opponent, was said to live in Miri from where he only visited once.18 In multiple instances, villagers disagreed about whether and to what extent Miri residents should be involved in decision-making mostly affecting permanent residents. While some estimated that everyone should be involved in making decisions, others considered that decisions should be made among year-long residents and channelled back to others. These disagreements can be imputed to logistical ease due to the unreliability of internet access in the villages and lack of responsiveness from city-dwellers, as evoked19 by respondents, but also to the sense that year-long village residents will be affected the most by decisions and therefore are responsible for making such decisions.

Consultation and FPIC

24Consultation and the securing of consent is a crucial point of concern in any development and/or conservation project which is to affect so-called indigenous communities and their lands or territories. The international standard of Free, Prior and Informed Consent (FPIC), requires a proper consultation and cooperation with the peoples to be affected by such a project, in which transparent and comprehensive information about the project is provided, including social and environmental impact assessments. This must be done through a participatory process free of intimidation, coercion or manipulation and led sufficiently in advance of any commencement of activities (UNDRIP, 2007). When discussing with Kenyah representatives in Miri – people cooperating with NGOs and involved in advocacy work – the concept of FPIC came up repeatedly, and it was stated that development and/or state entities ought to provide documentation permitting a thorough comprehension of the project, its size and scope, its impacts on the environment and human rights, as well as villagers’ respective roles and that of any external staff that might become involved.20

25Upon arriving in villages, we soon realised that the NGOs that were guiding us and taking part in the ITTO project as representatives of indigenous interests would be leading consultation efforts. More importantly, the visit occasioned by our research formed an integral part of this consultation process, which from our point of view posed obstacles to the objectivity and quality of our research results, as we could not be decoupled from the NGOs. Every interview was preceded by a pitch from our guide on the proposed UBFA project, along with its empowering nature and the aim of our research. The first half of the interviews, which took place in Kenyah villages, often began fairly slowly, with respondents seeming relatively uninterested in answering questions and by times opposing the notion of the project. Various Kenyah respondents claimed to be completely unfamiliar with the UBFA. In these cases, the NGO guide reminded the interviewees of her past visits, during which she had already evoked the UBFA and spent time providing information on its context, goals, and envisioned benefits. Some Kenyah respondents denied having ever heard about this project, and in many cases, it was dismissed as being a ‘Penan project’ for which they had never been consulted.21 In contrast, Penan respondents showed up to interviews by the dozens, agreeing to come back a second night in a row if we had more questions. Villagers were eager to hear from us, and some headmen travelled by foot for hours to partake in interviews which were held in villages other than their own. For the entire duration of the fieldwork and in both ethnic groups, most respondents seemed convinced that their responses, opinions and grievances would hold considerable weight in the ITTO project design. This led us to attempt to clarify at various times that our research did not officially form part of the consultation process but rather held advisory value towards BMF and the ITTO.

26While their reaction to our presence and research differed – as well as their ascriptions, expectations and enthusiasm for the UBFA, which will be discussed in the next section – Kenyah and Penan respondents provided fairly uniform responses regarding prior experiences with consultation and consent by external entities seeking to implement projects in the Ulu Baram area, particularly regarding examples of successful and failed consultation processes. Improper consultation was systematically symbolised by the Samling Group, the main timber company active in the area. Various respondents evoked that the Group had never had any contact with communities and simply ‘showed up with bulldozers’ on indigenous territories. Moreover, some incidents were mentioned during which deceptive tactics were used by the corporations and mediated by temenggongs or penghulus to obtain written consent from headmen allowing timber activity on their land. A high-ranking representative in the Long Moh village reported that in 2021, he was invited to the Samling office in Miri to sign a form with a lawyer, allegedly about Gerenai FMU, for which no consultation had been conducted. Encouraged by the temenggong, the man was asked to ‘write down his grievances’ about timber activities and subsequently sign a document, in a fraudulent attempt to obtain his signature and thus his written consent to grant land to the company.22 Such forms and attempts by Samling to get them signed by villagers were reported in three instances. Throughout the interviews, mentions of Samling and other timber companies, as well as the FMU projects led by the FDS, were always evoked along with feelings of mistrust and dispossession. ‘Logging companies should not participate in the UBFA. I have seen all that the logging companies have done, and the same problems will continue’23

Figure 7 and next: Syarikat Samling Timber Baram Central Base Camp, engines and timber pertaining to the Samling Group

Figure 8 and next: Syarikat Samling Timber Baram Central Base Camp, engines and timber pertaining to the Samling Group

Figure 9 and next: Syarikat Samling Timber Baram Central Base Camp, engines and timber pertaining to the Samling Group

Figure 10: Syarikat Samling Timber Baram Central Base Camp, engines and timber pertaining to the Samling Group

27Additionally, respondents also evoked some government-funded development projects as negative examples of consultation, particularly in light of follow-ups and compensation. Long Semiyang inhabitants described the government’s approach to development projects and criticised the amount of unfinished projects: ‘The current government only appoints people who favour themselves. They are very ignorant of people’s welfare. The government has the final say. They say they will pay rather than listen, but they never actually pay.’24 In another Kenyah village, residents discussed an unfinished roofing project: ‘Budget intended for the community always seems to go into the headman and contractors’ pockets. [...] Government projects are always missing something.’25 The aforementioned SCORE hydropower dam project was mentioned a few times, in which no consultation was led, and compensation is still awaited for damage to land and areas of cultural value. Residents of Long Moh evoked finding out about the nearby 2013 Murum dam when they were called to see the flooded graveyards and count the graves ahead of compensation. Additionally, the Highland Development Agency (HDA) government-funded road projects were at times evoked in the same light as the timber companies. A Kenyah respondent explained: ‘We were left in the dark until the machinery arrived in the kampung (village). We did a blockade to ask for explanations because the road destroyed our temudah (cultivation area). We were compensated for fruit trees but not for the land, fish pond, padi rice and much more.’26

28On the other hand, successful instances of consultation, guided by transparency, were uniformly exemplified by the Sarawak Alternative Rural Electrification Scheme (SARES), a government-funded solar power project geared towards bringing light to remote communities and implemented by the company Sarawak Energy. For this project, direct in-person village visits were conducted by a subcontractor, who met with each headman and the village committee in a general meeting, describing the plan, price, location and additional detail regarding solar panels. ‘The contractor came to the village with the [former] headman and met with the whole community. He told us everything, from the number of sockets, bulbs and wiring, told us the exact price and gave us the option to make additional requests.’27 In this example, the specified values of proper communication and open discussion, rather than coercion, were cited as the framework for legitimate consultation. The solar panels were present in all of the villages we visited.

Figure 11 SARES solar panels in Long Tungan

Figure 12 SARES solar panels in Long Tungan

29In terms of desirable consultative process, the same protocol was systematically mentioned by both Kenyah and Penan respondents. All respondents, regardless of the decision-making structure of their village or general satisfaction with the headman, contended that the correct procedure for communicating with and securing consent from villagers was the following: external actors seeking to set up a project should inform the headman via a letter, who would then gather the community to discuss the project and reach a decision by consensus. Finally, in the desirable consultation procedure, the agreement regarding the proposal would be brought back to the entity through the headman.

30When made explicit, consensus meant gathering and sitting together for a discussion until all agree: if one person disagrees, the group does not go forward with the decision. But if most agree while some are ambivalent and do not ascribe much value to the decision, it can go forward. During the interviews, we notably got to witness the long discussions which can take place before an answer is given, with debates between respondents sometimes lasting for up to 12 minutes before a one-word answer is given. In some villages, respondents explained that in the case of disagreements, people would turn to older generations to solve problems. Despite various villagers having described their headman as corrupt and dismissive of their opinions, they remained loyal to this procedure and did not consider any other alternative. In the case of the UBFA, or any other project for that matter, this might prove problematic as some communities would be left unconsulted despite a strict application of the procedure as demanded by these communities. Upon inquiring into openings for alternative communication channels, we found that more inclusive and direct pathways would be possible, such as contacting all villagers via WhatsApp.

31Interview takeaways with regards to decision-making, consensus and consultation posed the first clear obstacles to the UBFA, or any project to be implemented in the area. Cleavages between NGO and government supporters and consequential issues of representation will inevitably cause issues in terms of securing consent. With headmen appearing as the main intermediary between villagers and outside entities, and many communities feeling as though their headman is not representative of their own interests, it is inevitable that consultation processes will not be reflective of all or let alone the majority of the inhabitants of Ulu Baram villages. As exemplified by the SARES project, this hurdle could be overcome if the executive agency, in this case the FDS, undertakes in-depth consultation processes by visiting every village and leading in-person meetings with community members. The importance of this process should not be underestimated.

Land use and practices

34Land use practices varied widely between both ethnic groups. While some Kenyah villages had specifically zoned areas for restricted or individualised land use and prohibition of certain practices including fishing, hunting and farming, they mostly did not put particular emphasis on preservation of biodiversity. Penan respondents, on the other hand, were unanimous in harbouring a collective and sustainable attitude towards the entirety of the forest. The use of this term, as opposed to the ‘land‘, denotes the particular relation entertained by this people with the forest.

35In terms of subsistence, both ethnic groups’ differences should not be overstated. While historically different as the Kenyah were sedentary farmers and the Penan nomadic hunter-gatherers, the latter were forced to adopt similar practices to the former. For both Penan and Kenyah, as well as other Orang Ulu of the Baram area, padi (paddy) rice is the central staple food. Hill paddy swidden cultivation is undertaken in a year-long cycle which structures various aspects of life and work (Aeberli, 2020, 66). In March, villagers decide on which rice field sites31 will be cultivated this given year, according to the rotational nature of this practice which ought to leave land to regenerate upon having been cleared and cultivated. From April to June, bushes are slashed and trees are felled so as to clear the designated plots, and during the dry season which follows – July and August – remaining dried branches are burned. Around late August and early September, the period during which we visited and partook in farming activities, rice is planted, as designated by the Kenyah term nugan. In the same area where rice is planted, communities may also plant vegetables such as corn and cucumber. Finally, harvest takes place between late December and March, closing the cultivation cycle (Aeberli, 2020). This year-long cultivation cycle determines various aspects of communal life, including the annual workflow as well as peoples’ notion of the time measurement, with some residents alluding to being born ‘at the beginning of the year’ referring to the period following harvesting, from March onwards.32 While accompanying the residents of Long Semiyang in nugan, we witnessed the collaborative approach to agriculture used by Kenyah people. Although the plots belong to individuals (or families), all adults come together to plant rice in each plot until all land has been covered.

36While rice constitutes the main staple for communities, various other crops and plants are cultivated including pumpkin, corn, yam, cucumber, spinach, leaf mustard, ferns, kangkong (water spinach), mushrooms, but also many fruits such as durian, wild mango, jackfruit, and rambutan. Roots and starch extracted from plants’ core tissue, such as tapioca, a starch from cassava roots, and sago, a white starch issued from palm stems, are also particularly popular but considered by some as ‘poor people’s food’ (Aeberli, 2020, 115). We ate more of these in Penan villages (which however cannot be held as a representative or universal fact denoting a trend among the general population). While farming is fairly recent for the Penan, who only began practicing it half a century ago, the Kenyah particularly care about maintaining their identity as farmers. They have however experienced a decline in hill paddy farming due to the long cultivation cycles and young people preferring immediate return practices such as vegetable gardening, fishing and hunting, as well as the rural exodus and some town dwellers buying and bringing back rice to the village (Aeberli, 2020). Other cash crops such as rubber have entered the picture, while rattan (palm tree) and the handicraft that women make by weaving it, are particularly popular among Penan villages.

Figure 13: Penan woman cooking

37Both ethnic groups also practice fishing and hunting. For fishing, there seemed to exist among Kenyah people an unwritten common understanding not to encroach on other longhouse territory within the river. Both the Penan and the Kenyah practice tagang, a fishing practice in which protected areas of the river are designated, on which fish are trained to eat at certain times.33 Both ethnic groups also have a prohibition on the use of poison, shock or bomb fishing. Hunting, on the other hand, has been practiced for capturing babui, wild boars, for consumption. A Penan man said that the Penan tell the whole village when they go hunting so as to prevent them from also going and thus not overdo it. ‘By giving a portion of hunting game to each family, the Penan prevent overhunting and manage jealousy. They share everything. If everyone wants to hunt, one person catches [game] and will divide among others. [...] When the logging companies came, this changed.’34 Hunting has however dramatically decreased since the 2021 outbreak of African Swine Fever in Sarawak, which greatly depleted the pig population. When it is practiced for catching deer and smaller animals, this practice is surrounded by unspoken rules among Kenyah communities and represents a certain taboo. Due to ancestral beliefs – fear of warning the game and bringing bad luck – as well as the secrecy surrounding unregistered possession of firearms, which have come to replace traditional hunting gear, people never announce that they are going to hunt. Taboo to admit to and rude to ask about, hunting is often replaced by analogies such as ‘going on a walk in the forest’. (Aeberli, 2020).

38Both groups are generally against wasting food but denote different attitudes towards sharing it and regulating different land use practices. For the Kenyah, fishing and hunting are generally allowed to take place anywhere within the village’s boundaries, while timber extraction and cultivation take place exclusively on each person’s respective temudah, individual land plot.35 Various Kenyah respondents claimed that the adat – traditional and cultural set of rules – does not say anything about land use practices, restrictions or regulations, but proceeded to evoke traditional, inherited practices. Along with the aforementioned tagang custom and prohibitions on certain practices, Kenyah respondents evoked various protected zones in which land use restrictions applied. In the area referred to as Jamok, namely the association of the villages of Long Tungan and Long Siut, a reserve forest named Ba’i Keremun Jamok (BKJ) was said to have been established by ancestors. This ‘Jamok treasured forest’ has been passed down through generations as a protected area in which no hunting or farming is allowed, and tree felling is only permitted for villagers’ own use. With the help of NGOs SAVE Rivers and BMF, villagers put land use rules into writing and applied for government protection in making BKJ a legally recognised communal forest.36 Their intention was notably to do ecotourism and jungle trekking in the area, but the government had not yet responded to the request.37

39In Long Moh, a similar forest reserve exists, Nawan, which was also passed down from ancestors but is not officially registered. One is not supposed to make noise upon entering the reserve. The area, part of which is under FMU, was deemed too large by the Land and Survey Department when asked for official protection. Respondents evoked that the preservation of the Nawan is not so much linked with conscious intentions to preserve the biodiversity, but rather rooted in their traditional belief that the area has been haunted following a war.38 When discussing interests in biodiversity conservation, the Kenyah often referenced delimited areas of cultural significance as opposed to the entirety of the forest. Notably, the mountain peak of Batu Siman was evoked in various instances as being of great cultural importance in traditional stories transmitted from generation to generation, and thus a place which should be preserved and potentially opened for tourism.39

40The Penan, on the other hand, contended that no rules nor restrictions exist with regards to land use, as people stick to the ‘Penan sustainable lifestyle’ by not doing anything excessively nor in abusive ways.40 In this case, customary restrictions also do still seem to exist in the image of the aforementioned prohibitions on certain fishing practices, they are just unspoken and unwritten. This traditional sustainable lifestyle amounts to not felling any more timber than absolutely necessary. Timber felled at the time of clearing forest parcels to build farms is conserved and used whenever needed for house or boat construction. When necessary, older rather than younger trees are cut to allow for regrowth, and plants and other forest products, such as sago and fruits, are taken in small quantities from disparate areas.41 It was evoked various times that the only marks traditionally known to denote Penan presence were that of the tajem (poison darts) left on the trees from their blowpipes, exclusively on trees traditionally stewarded by Penan villagers in their cultural practice of molong.

41When discussing this approach and their land use, the Penan always refer to ‘the forest’ as opposed to using terms such as ‘the land’ or ‘resources’. By walking in the forest, they evoke feeling a deep connection and remembrance of their elders, parents, grandparents and ancestors, as though they were still present. As opposed to the Kenyah, the Penan attribute all of their land use practices to the adat. More particularly, the term molong was used to describe this approach to the nonhuman world. Associated with the appreciation of a plant or an area, to molong means to mark it so as to prevent it from harm or destruction.42 As reported by Aeberli, the Kenyah have a similar word, to metip, meaning to mark or ‘book’ an area or a plant – a mark only valid for two years. The difference between the two further highlights the divergence in land use approaches between both groups, as metip is used with the intention of declaring individual ownership rather than a collective sense of stewardship (Aeberli, 2020, pp. 104-105).

Expectations for the UBFA

42The gap between relationships to the land also amounted to differing expectations for the UBFA project’s main focus. The Kenyah people interviewed seemed less concerned with biodiversity conservation than with community empowerment, evoking recurrent key terms such as ‘community voices’ and ‘bottom-up governance’. To the Kenyah, this empowerment could be achieved through having the control over natural resources, whether for their preservation or their extraction. On the other hand, Penan respondents were uniform in prioritising biodiversity and cultural conservation for the UBFA, with ecotourism considered as a potential source of income. Sustainable use of forest resources and the preservation of their knowledge of the fauna and flora appeared as primordial to the Penan. Their expectations for the project were that of a deeply meaningful achievement of self-determination and the final outcome of decades of struggle in protecting the forest and their identity, to which it is intrinsically linked.

43When asked about the importance they ascribe to the UBFA, the Kenyah mostly said they were unfamiliar with the project or unclear on what it would entail. When asked about their community’s role within the UBFA as well as their interests in or what they found important in this project, recurrent keywords included the priority on ‘voices of the community’ and ‘from the ground,’ as well as ‘having control of the resources’ or the ‘right to manage our own resources’. Some of them did evoke that resources should be preserved for future generations, and that zoning for preservation areas should be established for animals and trees – preferably by the communities themselves as they know where the resources are.43 Notably, the areas evoked above such as the BKJ and Nawan, were said to potentially benefit from this park in terms of preservation. Beyond these sparse references to conservation for the sake of preserving, various respondents evoked their wish to preserve the forest for ‘there is high value timber here’.44

44There seemed to exist disagreements among the Kenyah over whether logging companies should be permitted to participate. In cases that they should, respondents systematically limited this participation to ‘following [the community’s] terms and conditions’, buying timber from them and not having control over timber extraction.45 The notion of terms and conditions came up at various times and respondents stated that they were nervous about timber companies ‘playing sneaky’ and choosing whom to bring benefits.46 Income opportunities from tourism or the management of the park also often came up as potential benefits envisioned, and Kenyah respondents highlighted the importance of local people’s involvement as guides and hosts or in construction work.47

45Some pushback arose at times with regards to the origins of the UBFA as a Penan-initiated project as well as their numeric superiority:48 ‘why would we be part of the UBFA if there are more Penan involved than other groups?’49 Due to the scepticism brought about by there being a majority of Penan villages among the UBFA boundaries, some Kenyah respondents mentioned feeling relieved that the FDS is running the project.50

46In turn, asking the Penan about what the UBFA (which they still label Taman Damai Baram, Penan Peace Park) meant to them and the priorities it ought to emphasise, they seemed to answer rather in ways geared towards convincing us of the importance of the project. ‘We have waterfalls, plants, mountains…’51 It is undeniable that the Penan people we met were already absolutely convinced of the usefulness and necessity of having this park, and seemed to believe they might have to persuade us of it. For example, while trekking in the surrounding area of Long Kerong, our guide mentioned various times that the variety of plants and medicinal products found in the forest could interest European biologists and scientists. Echoing the aforementioned history of scientific attention paid to the area in pre-colonial and early colonial times, he said we could become renowned researchers and make lots of money, should we become interested in the biodiversity of the area.52 This self-commodification of their knowledge and treasured biodiversity is part of a process in which Penan appropriate and adapt to Western discourses whenever viewing openings for external support and resources which might further their goals, as will be discussed in a following section.

47As previously evoked, Penan enthusiasm for the UBFA was charged with emotion, and a peculiar phrase came up in almost every discussion concerned with the park. Our guide and his respondents53 unceasingly referred to the territorial mapping and surveying projects undertaken by communities in collaboration with BMF, stating that it was almost finished and seeming to approximate this process with that of successfully claiming and securing the area as their own. ‘We have the map now. It is 90 per cent completed. We have been working for many years to get the map. [...] Every village has a designated area. We want for every village to get to look after that area how they want to.’54 During official interviews as well as informal discussion, this analogy of getting from 90 to 100 per cent repeatedly came up: ‘We want the UBFA. To be left alone by companies and live happily. [...] Having the park would mean winning the fight. I went to jail as well, I was present in the struggle. I want the park to be 100 per cent, that would be a win.’55 This notion of the culmination of a decades-long struggle was uniform in respondents’ answers. They repeatedly emphasised their expectation for a totally protected area in the entirety of the UBFA, with no power to anyone other than themselves over their own territory.56 The notions of power over their own land, freedom to move around and safety to live how their fathers used to, came up in almost every interview in Penan villages. The benefits of the project were thus clearly geared towards biodiversity and cultural conservation as well as self-determination, with some openness to ecotourism as a viable income source. Respondents made sure to highlight ‘Money is secondary’.57

48Regarding other entities’ involvement in the project, the Penan evoked mistrust towards the government, whom they claimed vilified them for partaking in civil disobedience while not holding up promises or listening to their grievances. They expressed wanting to be heard and to benefit from what the government could bring them, despite the government depicting them as totally closed off to any interaction or intervention. When asked about logging companies’ involvement, respondents either outright refused it, evoking having been deceived by them before, or claimed to allow it within Kenyah boundaries. One interviewee stated ‘Anyone [can be involved in the UBFA] as long as we keep the park forever. No expiry limit’.58

49Concrete institutional setups and governance mechanisms for the upcoming park were fairly difficult to discuss, as interviewees generally did not see a need to coordinate with other villages for any matter. This can be linked back to respondents’ attachment to the ‘power over our own land’ principle, as communities understood that they would simply govern their own territory as they pleased and in full autonomy. ‘Our rules, our rights, our land!’ claimed a Kenyah villager.59 Questions concerned with the specifics of governance institutions and mechanisms for the upcoming park were met with confusion, lengthy back-and-forth discussions and follow-up questions or explanations between respondents, who sometimes ended up stating that such details will be figured out once the project begins. Having initially planned to investigate the ‘desirable institutional setups’ and ‘governance structure and mechanisms’, we soon realised that none of these words or synonyms we could think of would make sense in Penan, Kenyah, or even Bahasa Malaysia. Upon attempting to clarify what we were asking about, we inevitably planted and sealed ideas in the minds of our respondents. Once presented with an example, and without a linguistic equivalent to the overarching category and the multitude of shapes it may take, interviewees systematically agreed. Respondents contended that an overarching committee would be desirable, with multiple elected representatives from each village meeting twice a year, so as to avoid concentration of power in the hands of one person – a structure that already exists in the community ‘ExCo’ (executive committee) and which was set up in the context of FMUs.60 It was fairly difficult for us to differentiate whether respondents genuinely agreed with our propositions, or if they were being acquiescent due to a cultural propensity to say yes – as it had been described to us various times of the Penan prior to leading research – or for the sake of being polite and/or to avoid complicated discussions. Beyond the linguistic aspect, cultural translatability was a challenge in our research process and has to be taken into account when crafting consultation processes. Finally, another aspect playing into these positive answers is that some people seemed to believe our research would influence the course of the project. As suggested by Jean-Pierre Olivier de Sardan, many ‘beneficiaries’ of development projects enter developers’ logic and language with acquiescence so as to grasp and secure any potential resource or support which might be made available by the latter (2021).

Overlapping boundaries and compromising

50Whether attributed to communication by NGOs, individual hopes and involvement, or to the ITTO project proposal, both Kenyah and Penan communities understood the UBFA as one which will allow each village to autonomously govern their own territory, with no incursion whatsoever from external parties, unless approved or requested by the community. This notion of ‘power over our own land’ dominated discussions, placing land disputes and self-determination at the centre of the project, regardless of the differing aims pursued in executing that power. Both communities had long-standing disputes over village boundaries and overlapping land claims, and various respondents evoked the others’ presence in what they claimed to be their own territory. Both sides asserted their benevolence in allowing the other community to live on their land for the sake of preserving a harmonious relationship. The Kenyah said that the Penan had systematically chosen to settle near and within the boundaries of Kenyah villages, while the Penan claimed their historical precedence and belonging to the entire area, albeit in a nomadic and non-territorialised way.

51Territory mapping was evoked various times as a contentious matter between both groups, one in which NGOs were inevitably drawn to take sides. As mentioned previously, BMF has collaborated with Penan communities and with Keruan to craft comprehensive maps recording Penan territories and cultural landmarks. This mapping was decried multiple times by Kenyah respondents who felt that they had not been properly consulted and evoked disagreements over boundaries drawn in these maps. This issue came up multiple times, notably in the Jamok area61, and in Ba Jawi62. On the other hand, Penan people recognised that the Kenyah had cleared forests to farm and settled in villages before the Penan even settled collectively – which happened in the 1960s in the area – but maintained their claim that the entire land historically belongs to them. With their nomadic past, the Penan claimed that their ancestors, having to carry everything on their back without boats, would have made it impossible for them to have migrated from anywhere else than the Baram area.63 They thus also found that they were being benevolent to the Kenyah given their later arrival in the area, alleging that some Kenyah were farming on areas located on Penan land.64 Our Penan guide notably evoked past disputes in the Jamok area, where Kenyah people living in Long Siut, an inevitable passage point to get to the Penan villages of Long Sepigen, Long Kerong and Long Sait, had attempted to impose a tax on anyone wishing to cross the village.65

52When asked about the project, both groups estimated that these ‘grey areas’ between territories could be co-managed, although the Penan clearly stated that they would allow no new felling of trees in these areas beyond already cultivated land. Penan interviewees estimated that the Kenyah could do anything they please in their own territories, such as cutting trees and having companies build roads, but that this would not be allowed in overlapping land.66 Some Kenyah villages stated that logging should continue to be allowed within the UBFA boundaries, but be carried out exclusively by the villagers themselves, who would then sell extracted timber to logging companies. Compromise with these companies was considered as a viable option among various respondents if it provided the community with access to infrastructure such as roads. On the other hand, Penan respondents were adamant that no timber companies could be negotiated with or allowed in the forest. This disagreement over timber roads has come to take centre stage in UBFA discussions. During a 2020 meeting chaired by the temenggong, the latter reportedly declared ‘if Samling cannot log, there will be no more roads’ and proceeded to ask each attendee to agree to logging.67 When interviewed about overlapping boundaries and involvement of timber companies, a Kenyah respondent stated ‘Penan don’t allow timber companies on their land so there is no road access. Then, for the solar project, it was hard for the contractor because the access road was inaccessible. The timber companies are important to make roads. When we asked, someone said the logging company can’t enter the UBFA, so if they’re not allowed, who will build the roads? We want to support whoever can make life easier. It can create opportunities for the village.’68

53In conclusion, Penan and Kenyah land use practices and relations to the land/forest proved to be strikingly different. This gap inevitably debunks the monolithic ‘communities’ category supposed by the ITTO project document, and calls for extensive anthropological studies as well as in-depth consultation in the presence of entities and individuals familiar with these cultural specificities. In a project targeting goals of indigenous ‘participation’ and ‘empowerment’, gaining a thorough understanding of differing identities, practices, needs and expectations forms a necessary step to be undertaken by development and state agencies, should they make a genuine attempt at reaching these goals.

Communities

55As briefly touched upon in the previous section, both indigenous groups display contrasting ways of life, relations to the land/forest and interests. While both communities seek to assert self-determination and political power over their own land, the Kenyah participants focused on income generation whereas the Penan favoured forest preservation. Despite being relatively excluded from the negotiation processes leading up to the project proposal and agreement, they do not act as mere ‘beneficiaries’ whose traditional knowledge can be used for the purpose of SFM. Instead, they exert agency and invoke key concepts to adapt to certain discourses and access resources. As described in the previous section, many Kenyah respondents were convinced that cooperation with the government and timber companies, through the symbolic access to roads, would bring them into the long-awaited development promised by the state. My research partner returned to Sarawak and attended various workshops and meetings organised by the FDS with communities. She noted that some Kenyah respondents, who attended these meetings in numbers, did not hesitate to voice their appeals to this insertion into the state’s economic life: one attendee pleaded ‘we are in poverty, we can hardly make ends meet. Life is hard. We are hungry for development’, while another asked ‘Why is the ITTO leaving us in poverty like this? Why aren’t we given any money? We don’t have roads.’69 As evoked previously, the necessary presence of logging companies was recognised by other Kenyah attendees: ‘We can make use of this platform to bring development to our area. No logging, no roads’, while others took direct issue with Penan protests against logging, calling for a halt to the blockades.70

56The Penan mostly seemed to rely on foreign (Western) support for their conservation aims, while vilifying the government. Drawing back to the aforementioned environmental campaign which took place in the 1980s and during which their cause took the global front stage in the face of the dispossession caused by logging, the Penan have increasingly picked up on and adopted the frame of conservation to appeal to Western audiences and funding. During our research, a more profound dimension of their relationship with white people soon became apparent. On the first few days of the fieldwork, we became familiar with the term ‘Orang putih’, the Bahasa Malaysia term for white people/persons. We were referenced as such in various contexts, often with Kenyah people joking about orang putih doing nugan (planting rice), trying rice wine, or other of their daily activities. Additionally, we were given Kenyah nicknames, ‘Mening’ (clear water) for me and ‘Mbang’ (ready to fly) for my research partner. Among Penan people, the relation to white people seemed to take an entirely different meaning, although we could not pinpoint why at first. The clearest manifestation of this peculiar relationship was our guide’s insistence on villagers giving us Penan nicknames, as they did with every visitor. In Long Kerong, we were called ‘Ungo’ (myself) and ‘Tening’ (my research partner), the former in reference to one of the main mythological characters in Penan traditional stories as well as the name of every river, while the latter meant ‘our leader’, who will guide us through the struggle.71

57Upon reading a Brosius (1997b) article after returning to Switzerland, it became apparent that some of the fascination and enthusiasm we experienced might have been linked with a sense of colonial nostalgia, generalisation and idealisation of white people’s intentions and capacities. As acutely observed by Brosius in his thick description of Western and Eastern Penan differences, both of these groups identify three main historical periods: the distant past, the colonial period (with a conflation of the Brookes and British domination), and Malay rule. As described by the scholar and corroborated by our experience, the first two of these periods are evoked with great nostalgia and fondness, while the latter is negatively associated with logging and government incentives to settle and farm. This ‘historical dichotomy’ between an idealised past and current hardships places the orang putih in a position of legitimate governance based on his precedence (Brosius, 1997b, 488). The Penan recall and believe that the colonial government cared about and acted towards protecting their right to the land: one elder said to us ‘during British times, we had a good life.’72 According to Brosius, Western environmentalists embody this colonial past and are perceived by Penan as the ‘vanguard of its return’: when talking about their situation to these foreigners, ‘they believe they are talking to individuals who have the power to put an end to Malay hegemony and the condition to which it is associated: logging’ (1997b, 489). Moreover, the scholar identified a certain conflation of white people with government, as he writes, among other examples, ‘another expression of Eastern Penan hope for a return to colonial rule are direct questions about when orang putih can return’, as evoked by one woman asking him the same and stating ‘we will just stay here and wait’ (1997b, 489). This specific example was particularly striking to me as it matched our experience. In various Penan villages, people told us ‘you are finally here, it felt like forever waiting for your arrival’ despite our itinerary having changed various times and having (allegedly) been announced to respondents only a few days prior to the visiting date.73 While our fieldwork was not long enough to confirm that the meaning behind these questions is truly linked to a sense of colonial nostalgia, it is worth noting that Penan people have a particular relationship and ascription to white people. Several times, we were compared to Bruno Manser, being told we looked like him and that, should we start learning the language, we would soon take up his role – despite our involvement and commitment to the defence of their cause being infinitely different and minor to his. In another interview, we once again heard ‘during British times, things were good’, followed by ‘we want BMF to look after this [the UBFA].’74

NGOs

58During interviews subsequent to the fieldwork, various NGO workers discussed with me the need – in the context of the UBFA project – to find terms and discourses which work for everybody. Among these keywords was the aforementioned divide between the forest and the land, with the former holding more meaning to the Penan, and the latter to the Kenyah – to the extent that it is followed by specifications such as ‘land to cultivate rice’, ‘land on which forest was cleared for a farm’. Drawing back to the word ‘conservation’, one of the NGO members evoked the lack of meaning of this word among communities, which is not translatable into either of their languages. Rather, the person suggested talking about ‘preserving resources so that enough is left for next generations’.75 Expanding on this topic, it was suggested that in Western culture, our distance from the surrounding ‘nature’ or ‘environment’ allows for conservation to make sense. Conservation is presented as the other side of the coin of exploitation, one is the problem and the other the solution, with all of this made possible by our detachment from and externality to ‘nature’. In (most) Indigenous cultures, on the other hand, one cannot exist outside of ‘nature’, with which people have a certain social exchange and relation. Conservation thus becomes a meaningless concept.76 As mentioned previously, some of the Penan have integrated and appropriated this Western notion to create resonance of their struggle among Western publics.

59NGO workers each displayed their own personal affiliations and affections with and among communities. While some, such as our Penan guide, were intimately linked to a given cause, others had naturally or consciously drifted towards certain groups rather than others. Within BMF, despite a clearly Penan-oriented agenda made evident by Manser’s own relationship with the group, different workers displayed and admitted to having personal affiliations to one group or the other, recurrently returning to live in a given community when visiting throughout the years. Notably, one BMF worker fervently defended the Penan cause and spoke their language fluently. The person was evoked fondly among these villages, and their portrait was displayed as sole decoration in one of the longhouses we visited. Another BMF member has conducted research for various years among Kenyah people, some of whom are (metaphorically) referred to as that person’s family. That person evoked having made an academic choice which was in part informed by cultural and linguistic differences rendering ethnographic research among the Penan more difficult.77

60Through their understanding of local contexts, NGOs such as BMF, SAVE Rivers and Keruan act as mediators between communities and state and international entities. While this role somewhat formed part of their expected involvement in the project – as set out by the project document – these efforts are multilayered, oscillating between official and interpersonal communication, even with the more bureaucratic/formal agents. During a workshop on the UBFA project in the Penan village of Long Lamam in February 2023, the various NGOs gave presentations to nearly 100 community members on issues such as the ITTO document, MTCC sustainable forest management guidelines, and FPIC. Following the workshop, various grassroots community representatives from Kenyah, Penan, and Saban villages wrote a declaration in which they conveyed a message of excitement about the UBFA while also reasserting their ancestral rights to the land.78 At the occasion of a subsequent meeting in Kuching on 20 March, SAVE Rivers handed the declaration to the funding and executive agencies, which acknowledged it without expressing an ‘official acceptance’.79 This event was described by various NGO workers as having sparked some tensions between the different entities. Particularly, some headmen and temenggongs felt excluded from the February declaration which they deemed not to be representative of communities. They wrote to the FDS to complain, and the person in charge of the project at the Department contacted the NGOs via email to point out this concern in an aggravated tone. As a SAVE Rivers representative decided to discuss the issue out loud with the FDS official, the two began exchanging on a much more informal, ‘almost amicable’ tone through texts and calls. At a later stage, still on an interpersonal level of interaction (in-person), the same officer asserted to the SAVE Rivers representative, about the project: ‘If we are met with lots of hurdles and challenges, we will step away as executive agency’.80

61Despite being listed as primary stakeholders, local communities and the three NGOs were left out of the crafting of the UBFA inception report, which was completed by the FDS and the ITTO without consultation. During the 20 March 2023 meeting in Kuching, NGOs were surprised to realise that their presence was purely informational as they were invited to witness the signing of the Memorandum of Agreement (MOA) between the ITTO and FDS, with no previous awareness or mention that this would happen. Upon being excluded from the signing process while still being conveyed to witness it, the local NGOs have still not managed to obtain a copy of the inception report, despite BMF having asked for a copy in its own capacity as stakeholder and funder.81

Executive agency

62On 19 April, an additional workshop was organised by the Forestry Department of Sarawak (FDS) in a large conference hall in Miri, as a ‘community consultation event’ to explain the projects as well as the role of the FDS. The meeting gathered 100 people from all of the four ethnic groups except for the Kelabit (only two Saban persons were present). During this meeting, the FDS presented the project, which in the meantime had splintered into two different projects. As some funding was initially missing and eventually secured through a Japanese emergency fund, a complementary project proposal was drafted. Rewriting an entire agreement to reflect the interests of this additional funder was reportedly too complicated at this stage, so a second project proposal was written solely by the FDS. The UBFA project with which we are familiar, ‘Management Of Upper Baram Forest Area For Conservation And Sustainable Development With Involvement Of Local Communities’, is expected to last for two years and is funded notably by BMF and the city of Basel. In parallel, a one-year complementary project would begin at the same time labelled ‘Community Empowerment In Forest Management And Forest Landscape Restoration’.82

63During this meeting, the FDS asserted its framing of the UBFA as a forest management plan falling under the Sustainable Forestry Management principles of the ITTO. When asked by an indigenous attendee for clarification on the status of the upcoming park by comparing it to Pulong Tau, the same representative of the FDS who had exchanged with SAVE Rivers stated ‘this is not a conservation project’.83 The officer emphasised that ‘it is not a national park. The UBFA is just a land management area’, clarifying that existing temudah and community use areas will remain as well as FMUs. ‘This is not a conservation project. [...] You cannot expect to get what you want.’84 Upon asking NGO representatives about what exactly would change with the implementation of the UBFA, they all disheartenedly admitted that from their understanding, studies would be conducted to determine which parts of the aforementioned ‘core zone’ (79,000 hectares of primary forest situated within FMUs) are of high conservation value, with the aim of eventually delimiting preservation zones within that area at a later stage.85 Even then, the interviewed SAVE Rivers representative further described an interaction between their NGO and the Forestry Department officer, who allegedly ‘ironically’ asked ‘if logging takes place in the primary forests, will the community stage a blockade?’.86 This statement displays a dismissal of the long established right of communities to oppose logging as provided by FMUs and the MTCS, which, even outside of the UBFA context, should already be respected within logging concessions.