The Dayak people burn fields, not forests; the fire does not spread beyond the designated area. Image credit: Author.
Introduction
In Borneo, a land older than history itself, the Dayak’s fields are more than just places of cultivation. They are living memories, passed down through generations, whispering stories in the hands that sow seeds, singing in the rhythmic clash of machetes against rice stalks. Farming is not merely survival for the Dayak people; it is a way of reading time, a form of prayer, and a method of inscribing history into the land with hands intimately familiar with its texture.
During harvest season, the gathering of rice is accompanied by chants, dances, and shared meals in an act of belarasa—a sense of communal empathy deeper than words. Yet, change arrives like an unrelenting tide. The forests that once safeguarded their fields are receding, making way for regimented rows of oil palm plantations—soldiers of an unfeeling industry. The once-lush fields that nurtured life are now at risk of becoming mere relics of the past.
The Vanishing Land
In places like Landak, Bengkayang, Ketapang, Sekadau, and Sintang—names etched onto maps as silent witnesses to change—land use permits (Hak Guna Usaha or HGU) creep forward like an uninvited shadow. These permits encroach on ancestral lands, even penetrating the burial grounds of the Dayak forebears. But is land merely a measurable expanse? To the Dayak, it is a sacred space, where ancestors tethered their souls, and where children learn life’s stories carried by the whispering wind between the trees.
Read Indigenous Resilience in Academic Spaces
Grace Lukas of Sekadau once lamented, “HGU has invaded our customary lands—even Dayak graves are not spared.”
This is more than a loss of land; it is the slow erosion of a legacy, the uprooting of an identity deeply intertwined with nature. The fields that once sustained generations now struggle against forces beyond the control of those who have safeguarded them for millennia.
A Source of Life, A Neglected Wisdom
The Dayak’s fields are more than just about rice. After the harvest, the land does not lie dormant. It continues to give—tubers, vegetables, wild mushrooms—nourishment that transcends mere sustenance, forming a cycle of life that preserves the delicate balance of the ecosystem.
Sacerdoti and Jenkins (1978) estimated that a single hectare of a Dayak field can yield up to 900 kilograms of rice. Yet, the significance extends beyond numbers. The fields harbor biodiversity—wildlife that finds sanctuary, trees that continue to breathe, soil that remains fertile without reliance on artificial fertilizers.
Read Pre-Capitalism in Jangkang Village
Then came industry. Then came expansion. Then came the allure of convenience that eroded tradition. And now, Dayak children who once saw fields as an extension of home perceive them as relics of an irrelevant past.
Ethnotourism: Preserving the Fading Legacy
Perhaps the only way to ensure the fields’ survival is to invite outsiders to experience them—not to turn them into museum exhibits, but to feel their pulse. Not merely to observe, but to plant, to harvest, to understand the language of the land through touch.
This is where ethnotourism finds its meaning—not as an exotic escape for those seeking unique experiences, but as a bridge connecting a world that teeters on the edge of disconnection.
Through ethnotourism, the Dayak people can protect their land without selling it. They can farm without forfeiting their heritage. They can demonstrate to the world that there exists another way to coexist with nature—not as conquerors, but as custodians.
As Dr. Yansen TP noted in Lundayeh Idi Lunbawang (2018), a field is not merely an agricultural plot, but a living ecosystem. It thrives when forests are maintained wisely, when soil is granted time to rest, when human hands remain devoted to replanting.
Yet, time is not always patient. And perhaps, if we fail to protect these fields, they will survive only in records like this—an elegy for once-green lands, a requiem for lost songs, a memory of a life nearly forgotten.
Criminalizing Tradition: The Dayak and the Fire Myth
In Java, volcanic eruptions obliterate villages, engulfing homes and forests in lava. Ash darkens the skies, turning daylight into twilight. Yet, no one protests. No one accuses. The volcano merely fulfills its duty: to erupt, to destroy, to grant new life in its aftermath. When the disaster subsides, the land becomes fertile again, rice fields flourish, and fruit trees bear abundantly. The people rebuild, knowing that the destruction was part of nature’s cycle.
Read The Future of Dayak Farming: Preserving Tradition in a Digital Age
But Borneo has no volcanoes. It has no lava to renew its soil, no volcanic ash to enrich its farmlands. Instead, the Dayak have carved their own path—through fire, controlled and deliberate. They do not burn forests recklessly; they cultivate fields through practiced precision, ensuring the flames serve a purpose.
According to Mochtar Lubis (1980: 9), shifting cultivation has existed in Borneo for at least 10,000 years. Yet, accusations persist. The Dayak are labeled as forest destroyers—an orchestrated falsehood fueled by economic and political motives.
Fire, in the Dayak tradition, is not an uncontrolled blaze. It is a tool of knowledge, wielded with care, bound by wisdom passed through generations. But modern perceptions differ. The world sees it as a threat. It brands the Dayak as criminals.
Defending a Way of Life
In Sintang, West Borneo, Dayak farmers are arrested for practicing their age-old tradition. Their names are now immortalized in Dayak history as symbols of resistance.
Yakobus Kumis, Secretary-General of the National Dayak Customary Council (Majellis Adat Dayak Nasional - MADN), voiced his defiance: “We will not accept the criminalization of Dayak farmers. To accuse them of crime is to condemn our ancestors’ culture. There is no other word but: resist!”
The Dayak understand their land. They know its boundaries. They recognize that forests are homes, rivers are lifelines, and fields are the heart of sustenance. They do not destroy forests; they do not encroach upon others’ lands. They manage fire with skill, anticipating the winds, awaiting the rains, controlling the flames.
Yet, the modern world refuses to listen. It calls them arsonists. It calls them criminals. But the truth remains: the Dayak are not destroying forests. They are preserving them.
-- Masri Sareb Putra
Posting Komentar