'No pushover' Orang Asli ready to fight back

By Stephanie Sta Maria - Free Malaysia Today,

KUALA LANGAT: Mukim Tanjung 12 in Kuala Langat is the largest, richest and last piece of native land in Selangor. Its sprawling 17,800 acres received the Federated Malay States (FMS) Government Gazette in April 1927, which gave its inhabitants full rights to the land's natural resources of timber, tin and even gold.
The six villages thrived on the land's abundance as well as from the spoils of their crops and orchards.
Barely half a century later, however, an omnious shadow fell upon them in the shape of the state government.
Recognising the wealth that Mukim Tanjung 12 contained, the government decided to help itself to little pinches of it. Those pinches gradually grew into handfuls and soon, government projects were mushrooming across the land. It wasn't long before the land began to suffer.
Polluted water from the mining ponds seeped into orchards and forests to destroy these two sources of livelihood. In one area, an entire gazetted forest reserve was wiped out. To add insult to injury, the Orang Asli never saw a single sen from the government's tin mining operations.
Just as the vilagers had adjusted to the painful drop in income, another village set up home on the land. The seventh village had been forced to relocate from Sepang to Mukim Tanjung 12 when the low-cost carrier terminal (LCCT) project commenced.
Mukim Tanjung 12 found itself with 4,000 mouths to feed and barely enough resources. Once again, the villagers struggled to make ends meet. And once again, just as they had found their footing, the state government dropped another bombshell. It was plundering the land's last plentiful resource – its sand.
The real sand-mining scandal?
“We've had enough!” thundered Dewi Malam, a representative of the village head of Kampung Orang Asli Pulau Kempas. “The government has been robbing us of income from our own land for years and we're not standing for it anymore.”
Dewi has a particular axe to grind with the government. According to him, the Orang Asli had set up their own sand-mining company late last year called Sambutan Mewah. The company intended to sell sand to the state government in the hope of creating an alternate source of income.
As Sambutan Mewah waited for its permit to be approved, Dewi was tasked with guarding the stockpile of sand. During that period, he had urgent matters to attend to in Negri Sembilan and left for three days.
His return was greeted by frantic villagers who told him that a government company had carted their precious sand away. That company was none other than Kumpulan Semesta Sdn Bhd (KSSB).
“KSSB came here in December 2009,” Dewi recalled. “Its contractor's permit has expired in March but its operations haven't ceased. In the past three months, it has transported RM1 million worth of sand every day. That's how much we have lost so far.”
KSSB was recently slapped with allegations of graft in the sand-mining industry, which led to a public inquiry early last month. Despite reports of rampant illegal sand-mining activities occurring throughout Selangor, the inquiry only found KSSB guilty of mismanagement of funds.
According to a source familiar with the sand-mining operations in Mukim Tanjung 12, the sand is being funnelled towards three big projects – the LCCT, the Pulau Carey highway and the Jenjarom highway.
He alleged that the state government had been secretly feeding other sand-mining sites to the media and possibly even to Kapar MP S Manikavasagam – who made the graft allegations against KSSB – in a bid to divert attention away from Mukim Tanjung 12.
Dewi agreed, saying that operations in other areas like Sungai Rampai, Hulu Selangor and Kuang were child's play compared to what was taking place on their land.
“How can the government hold an open tender for a project on land that doesn't even belong to it in the first place?” Dewi asked, with bitterness. “And how can it exclude the owners of that land from that process?”
A deaf government
Dewi's brother, Jafrin, is equally frustrated. He claimed that the village heads and Tok Batins have approached and written to many government agencies and authorities but to no avail.
“I have filed five reports since last year and not one has spurred the government into any action,” he said. “We don't want to dramatise the situation, but the state government is refusing to cooperate so we have no other option.”
“And we're not just talking about the Pakatan Rakyat government but the previous Barisan Nasional government as well. Our troubles only heightened with the sand-mining operation but it started way before that.”
Dewi pulled out a thick folder of documents he had paintaksingly collected over the years as evidence that Mukim Tanjung 12 belongs to the Orang Asli.
Among those documents were letters of acknowledgement by the State Executive Council, the Kuala Langat District Office and the Department of Orang Asli Affairs. But those letters turned out to be mere pieces of paper in the Orang Asli's fight for their land.
“I went through so much trouble to get the original copy of the FMS Government Gazette,” Dewi said. “But when I showed it to the officer at the district office, he scolded me for being too smart for my own good.”
“Look, our income today barely sustains us on a daily basis, but we have never asked the government for money and we are not about to start now,” added Jafrin. “All we want is to feed our families and raise our standard of living from the resources of our land. But the government isn't giving us that opportunity.”
When asked whether they had approached the Kuala Langat MP, Abdullah Sani, and the chairman of the Selangor Orang Asli Land Task Force, Elizabeth Wong, the brothers exchanged sardonic smiles.
“Do you think it would make a difference?” Jafrin asked. “Don't you think they would be in a position to already know about this? If they haven't done anything before, why would they do something now?”
A prophecy
Since the government began staking its claim on Mukim Tanjung 12, the Orang Asli have discovered that their space of land has considerably shrunk. From having free rein over a luxurious 17,800 acres, they now only have access to 4,000 acres. And this has made them very angry.
“I don't have a lot of money but I will fight this matter in court if I have to,” Dewi swore. “When I was young, I didn't understand the full gravity of the matter but now that I do, I am not going to sit back and watch this continue.”
Dewi also prohesised that the Orang Asli would be the country's next social problem within two years if the government continued sidelining them.
“Few of us are university graduates,” he pointed out. “We know how to survive on the land that we have and and if that is taken from us, we will have to find other means of survival or escapism like prostitution, begging and drug addiction. This will happen, mark my words.”
The Orang Asli are a peaceful people by nature but they are not pushovers. And when pummelled into a corner, they will fight back.
“We are this close to the corner right now,” Jafrin said, holding his thumb and index finger an inch away from each other. “And taking the matter to court is just one avenue.”
Dewi extracted an old but pristine photograph of a keris from his folder. Tapping it thoughtfully with his finger, he said, “This keris was given to our previous penghulu by the late Sultan Abdul Samad, who told him to use it to fight any threats upon our village or community. Perhaps the time has come.”