Saving the First Souls

The plight of the Orang Asli in Malaysia is frightfully real, but as some have proven, not entirely hopeless

By Chan Siew Lian

Faizal is six, with a bright smile, twinkling eyes and a carefree mop of curls. When I first met him in an Orang Asli kampung in Melaka last year, saliva dripped from his grinning mouth unto his T-shirt; grubby palms mixed drool, food, and dirt in an unholy union. His awkwardly clenched fingers—a classic symptom of the cerebral palsy that struck when he was one—had trouble holding on to things.

Including his parents’ love. His father (a rubber tapping drunkard) and his mother (a housewife) left Faizal to his own devices in a toddler’s walker that refused to co-operate with his bowed, growing legs. Without proper motor control, he did not know how to negotiate a flat surface on his own. Without proper bladder control, he dirtied his home with human waste.

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Based on an announcement in June of this year by the government of Kelantan, Muslim preachers are slated to receive a bounty of incentives if they marry one of Malaysia’s indigenous peoples, i.e. the Orang Asli. Specifically, they are promised RM10,000, a house, a four-wheel drive and a RM1,000 allowance every month. Living happily ever after is optional.

According to Kelantan Missionary and Islamic Development Committee chairman Hassan Mahmood, “The State Government is dissatisfied with the missionary achievements.” With just 2,094 Orang Asli converted to Islam out of the 12,000 Orang Asli population in Kelantan, the rewards have also been extended to female Muslim preachers. In a state where men and women are customarily required to queue at separate check-out counters, it was a benevolent gesture of gender equality—and possibly the only progressive thing about this deal.

Predictably, the Human Rights Commission of Malaysia (Suhakam) slammed the announcement, deeming such a “utilisation of state resources [as] an abuse of power.” Some balked at the extraordinary expense to convert an Orang Asli. A Malay newspaper turned it into a joke. Others wondered aloud why no reward was offered for the conversion of other races. Were their souls less valuable?

And far from the madding crowd, the Orang Asli themselves offered no comment.

‘THE ORIGINAL PEOPLES’
Translated ‘original peoples’ or ‘first peoples’, the Orang Asli in Peninsular Malaysia make up about 0.5 percent of Malaysia’s 25.6 million population. Yet although they are undeniably the country’s first dwellers and generally accepted as ‘bumiputra’ (native, or literally ‘sons of the soil’), the Federal Constitution does not explicitly guarantee them the special rights reserved for the Malays and natives of Sabah and Sarawak.

Many times, even their basic rights are infringed upon.

One common plight has to do with land. The Orang Asli are bound almost spiritually to it; their convictions are summed up as, “Hidup dan mati bersama tanah” (“Live and die with the land”). Under the 1974 revisions to the Aboriginal Peoples Act 1954 however, Orang Asli have been reduced to ‘tenants at will’ of the Sultan vis-à-vis the State Governments. This means that all Orang Asli lands are perceived to belong unconditionally to the State, even those their great-great grandfathers lived on centuries ago.

History has seen their ancestral land rights revoked without compensation as tractors bulldozed their way to new highways and projects. Illegal loggers wiped out fragile ecosystems—the main source of food, medicine and income for these hunter-gatherers—while water supplies were contaminated. As the Orang Asli are being pushed out from their traditional grounds, they are resettled into new areas away from the jungle, often compensated with a few plots of land to cultivate rubber or palm oil. Yet the replacement soil is not always fertile, and saplings take time to grow. Furthermore, the regrouping of different Orang Asli tribes, each with its own language and culture into one resettlement, inevitably leads to incidences of communal fighting.

And so, the men search for answers in cheap bottles of samsu. The women turn to prostitution. The children, meanwhile, run around all day, going to school only when they feel like it. And who can blame them? At a tender age, they pick up informal lessons about segregation, earning nicknames like ‘Orang Sakai’ or ‘Orang Bukit’ from classmates. Six out of every 1,000 Orang Asli children entering Standard One will go on to Form Five—a whopping 99.4 percent dropout rate. “Tak boleh paksa anak,” say parents nonchalantly, many of whom are illiterate themselves.

The lack of education and an ignorance of the developed world’s workings leave the Orang Asli with an obvious deficiency. Taken out of the jungle, their surefootedness turns to stumbling. They are pests to the logging companies, easy prey to evangelising zealots and a predicament to the Government. In a space choked with other people’s agendas imposed on them, it is often easier to sit back and be a victim than fight the Goliaths on crutches.

THE STEPFATHER

“We take care of them from the womb to the grave.”
- Jimin bin Idris, former Director-General of JHEOA

The Orang Asli are the only ethnic group in Malaysia with a government department managing their affairs: the Jabatan Hal Ehwal Orang Asli (JHEOA), which falls under the Ministry of Rural and Regional Development. Also known as the Department of Aboriginal Affairs, JHEOA was established in 1953 by the then-ruling British Government to gain the support of the Orang Asli in their battle against the Malayan Communist Party during the Emergency period from 1948 to 1960. Prior to its establishment, and in order to break their ties with the communists, the British herded the more accessible Orang Asli communities into hastily-built resettlement camps, but the overcrowded, unhygienic and sun-baked conditions, coupled with mental depression, led to a few hundred deaths. Realising their mistake, the British changed tactics, building jungle forts at Orang Asli areas, where basic healthcare and the Malay language were taught. Eventually, support for the communists waned.

But the Department remained, and remains to this day. JHEOA manages a wide range of Orang Asli affairs, from approving land rights applications to buying pencils for schoolchildren (a practice stopped in the 1990s). The Aboriginal Peoples Act 1954 also gives the Government, via the Director-General of the JHEOA or the Minister responsible for the body, extraordinary control over the Orang Asli, including monitoring visits by outsiders to Orang Asli villages, or dictating what kind of books they are allowed to read. This has led to a form of paternalism, i.e. one society governing the other in what it views as being the other’s best interest. Even more pointedly, it bears an eerie similarity to the same communism it was created to quash.

In 1961, the JHEOA released another administrative policy that underlined the eventual goal to “assimilate the Orang Asli into the Malay sector of society”. Part of this requires embracing Islam, and converts are usually promised benefits like financial support, better housing (including water and electricity supplies), schooling, medical and transportation facilities.

But there is a flipside to the perks. Once assimilated, it is hardly a coincidence that the controversial matter of the ‘original bumiputra’ will be conveniently resolved. As the minority, the Orang Asli will be the ones who ultimately lose their cultural identity. “Once you become Muslim, you become ‘Melayu’,” says Bujang Hassan, 36, a social worker with an Orang Asli village in Melaka. “You are encouraged to shift out to Malay kampungs.”

Bujang’s (not his real name) interactions with the residents have exposed him to the preferential treatment received by Muslim Orang Asli converts, including faster housing application approvals by JHEOA officers. Yet as the aforementioned statistics in Kelantan demonstrate, the vast majority of Orang Asli have resisted proselytisation efforts. Being generally suspicious of outsiders and wanting to retain their culture, the idea of food restrictions and circumcision also does not go down well with the mostly-animistic Orang Asli. The Semai tribe, for example, have a nickname for Malays which means “chopped people”. Many converts still eat babi hutan (wild boar) and continue animistic practices.

Other religious groups that make regular contact with the Orang Asli have fared little better. Despite the emphasis on community work, distributing essentials or simply establishing friendships, their sincerity remains questionable. As a Semai leader stated in another independent report, “We want electricity. They give us a surau (chapel).”

DRINKING AWAY THE GOATS
With such extensive hurdles placed before them, JHEOA faces a gargantuan task in trying to achieve their goal to rid the Orang Asli of poverty by the year 2020. Over 80 percent of the Orang Asli live below the poverty line, compared to 8.5 percent nationally. Life expectancy is also significantly lower, estimated at 52 years for females and 54 years for males, compared to the national average at 72 and 68 years respectively. Malnutrition and easily preventable diseases like tuberculosis, malaria, ringworm infections, diarrhoea, leprosy, cholera, goitre and typhoid are still widespread.

With that, critics are calling for a revamp or even abolishment of the JHEOA. They argue that no legal or political justification for JHEOA exists, as the Orang Asli are equally entitled to the freedom and rights of all citizens as upheld by the Malaysian Constitution. “The logical resolution would be to dismantle the agency,” says Antares, a writer, musician and videographer who has been living with a Temuan tribe for over a decade. “[The JHEOA should] reallocate its annual funding to recognised NGOs, community action groups and private individuals with viable projects that involve Orang Asli participation in their own economic and cultural upliftment.”

There are also suggestions for an Orang Asli-run JHEOA—one that would better serve the interests and needs of the indigenous community while protecting their culture. Yet the damage on the Orang Asli’s psychological make-up from decades of domineering governance could be difficult to undo. “Orang Asli themselves are often reluctant to demand the abolition of this parochial bureaucracy,” admits Antares, “perhaps because they have, over several generations, acquired a subsidy mentality which has effectively diminished their self-confidence and self-esteem.”

This handout mentality has evidently led to wasted opportunities on the part of the Orang Asli to grow. Nevertheless, “the fault lies with the JHEOA,” insists Bujang. “[They] give aid without teaching them to be independent.”

Despite the JHEOA’s flaws, some quarters believe that the Government has good intentions and policies, simply let down by cultural insensitivity and a lack of transparency in implementation. Bujang recalls a community project where the Government gave out goats to the residents in an Orang Asli village. “But the Orang Asli didn’t cultivate them,” he says. “Instead, they sold them off and went drinking.”

NEW LIFE, ONE HEART
Some have decided to bypass official protocol and pave their own inroads into the world of the Orang Asli.

One such project was initiated by a group called Sinui Pai Nanek Sengik (SPNS), meaning ‘New Life, One Heart’. Recognising that Orang Asli communities were having their livelihoods destroyed by policies that took away their traditional land rights, SPNS began an educational program in 1995 in Perak where listening and learning were part of building a relationship based on trust, which then empowered communities for political and social action. The group used participatory methods like creating awareness of social issues through songs, small group discussions and workshops, proposing economy projects that encourage trade and management skills, and even building up the communities’ knowledge of their own history by compiling a ‘memorandum’.

After some time and persuasion, the communities involved learned to speak up, think critically and “not easily accept what is bestowed upon them”. In the pioneer village of Kampung Chang Lama, a Semai village eight kilometres from Bidor, Perak, the memorandum became the document handed over to government officials to demand recognition of their customary land. Says Bah Useh, a participant from Kampung Se’oi in Bidor, Perak, “Formerly, I had no idea that there is an act named ‘Akta 134’ (Orang Asli Act) that is implemented on our race. We are imprisoned in our own country by this act. We are given no chance to speak up. Everything told must be followed by us.”

Elsewhere, thorny land issues are blooming with cracks of hope. A landmark Bukit Tampoi court case last year ruled in favour of the Orang Asli plaintiffs who lost 38 acres in 1995 when the highway linking to Kuala Lumpur International Airport was built. The case is currently under appeal in the Federal Court.

And then there are the little deeds done daily. In February 2006, Bujang decided to take Faizal home to care for him. Aware that Faizal would need round-the-clock attention, and already having a wife and two small children, he divided the care-giving task between relatives and friends he could trust. Relieved of an extra mouth to feed, Faizal’s family showed their gratitude—by lapping up Faizal’s allocated supply of fortified milk from the Government. Eventually, the clinic found out and channeled new supplies through Bujang.

When I returned to Bujang’s kampung for a visit earlier this year, Faizal looked decidedly more cheerful. He had a new RM400 chair that trains him to sit up straight. His clothes were cleaner. Noting this to Bujang, he smiled politely and simply replied, “You must know why you help—it should not be for religious purposes. Help must be sincere.”

Bujang told me how he was in a furniture shop one day, looking for a special chair for Faizal. The shopowner got curious and asked who it was for, as his wife stopped by to listen. By the end of the story, the woman was crying, as Bujang shifted about uncomfortably, hardly expecting such a reaction. The couple deliberated, then pledged RM100 for Faizal’s chair.

Yet in August, after a period of crying for no apparent reason and not eating, Faizal was eventually brought back home, despite his 25-year-old mum being pregnant with her sixth child and busy minding the others. Bujang and family still visit Faizal every week. Undeterred, Bujang has begun preliminary plans to set up a childcare centre near the village.

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“The missing factor in any plan that might actually alleviate ‘poverty’ is love,” observes Antares. “Unless love is the basis of the interaction—unless there is a positive emotional commitment to these projects—they invariably backfire and fail.”

As a silent minority sidelined by land development schemes and ‘national interests’, the Orang Asli constantly teeter between preservation or demolition, a fate often dependent on which route the bulldozer takes. Only time will tell whether those in a position of help choose to continue with irrelevant projects, or finally pause and listen.

And for those like SPNS and Bujang—those who paused, listened and acted on their own a long time ago—their little acts of love will probably not stop a tractor in its tracks or cause a sea change in the Orang Asli’s fate. But that’s not to say the individual lives they encounter won’t make a significant dent somewhere, sometime.