Have we misunderstood the true essence of human evolution and the role of language in our ancient past? In a new article, I propose a Copernican shift in our understanding of language’s original function and the cognitive revolution that began approximately 75,000 years ago.
Traditional views hold that language evolved primarily as a tool for enhanced communication and complex thought. However, this article suggests that language’s original role was more about replicating behaviors linked with tool use, transferring these behaviors from one generation to the next through singing and rhythm. Initially, language served to reconcile the gap between the human body and its environment, which arose with the advent of the first stone tools, enabling early humans to navigate landscapes for which they were not biologically adapted.
This theory resolves a longstanding paradox since the inception of evolutionary theory: although thinking has an evolutionary past, and Homo sapiens are estimated to be 300,000 years old, humans have not always been ‘modern.’ What if humans are not inherently meant to think and act as they do today? What if evolution promoted aspects other than intellectual capability? Accepting this paradox might mean acknowledging that humans have undergone both a gradual evolutionary process, as Darwin suggested, and a rapid developmental leap, as indicated by archaeological findings—without any genetic change in the brain.
This new theory draws support from a diverse array of disciplines. Archaeological records reveal sporadic bursts of creativity alongside a gradual brain development; meanwhile, studies on mirror neurons offer a neurological basis for mimicry and observational learning, essential for transmitting skills and behaviors across generations. Additionally, theories about our aquatic past propose that water-based environments laid the groundwork for the evolution of vocalization and singing. Insights into how children acquire language—focusing on the roles of intonation and rhythm—mirror the significant role that song played over speech. These interdisciplinary findings suggest that our evolutionary path was not a straightforward march towards greater intellectual capability but rather a complex journey marked by periods of significant conformity punctuated by bursts of creative potential since the first stone tools 2.6 million years ago. This perspective helps explain not only the creative outbursts in South Africa 75,000 years ago but also other instances of early possible symbolic behavior, such as the use of shell beads by early Homo sapiens and Neanderthals.
Moreover, this perspective aligns with various global mythologies that narrate an ancient, harmonious coexistence with nature, disrupted by the cognitive revolution. Could the hauntingly beautiful cave paintings, some of the earliest known forms of human art, be interpreted not just as artistic expressions but as calls for help? These artworks could be seen as profound expressions of a deep-seated longing for reconnection with the natural world we once knew.
I am excited to release my latest photo book, which takes you through the captivating world of the Bajau Laut. Through a blend of vivid photography and engaging narrative, this book aims to bring you closer to the Bajau Laut — their everyday beauty, stark realities, rich culture, challenges, and their intimate bond with the ocean.
In this photo book, my goal is to offer more than just images; I strive to tell a story, convey emotions, and illuminate the unique cultural and environmental context of the Bajau Laut. Through my lens, you’ll experience the day-to-day life, the struggles, and the incredible resilience of these sea-faring people.
You can find the PDF version of the book below. Whether you’re a lover of photography, culture, or stories of human endurance and spirit, I hope you find this book both enlightening and inspiring.
In August and September, I, had the opportunity to participate in two screenings of the documentary Sama Dilaut, held at Copenhagen Biocenter and Kulturföreningen Tellus in Stockholm. Alongside the film director Christine Ramos, filmmaker Rhadem Musawah, ICLC director Michael Dawila Venning, and other panelists, I joined a post-screening discussion to explore the struggles faced by the Sama Dilaut.
The film gives an emotional glimpse into the day-to-day lives of the Sama Dilaut in Tandu-Owak, a coastal village on southern Sibutu Island in the southwestern Sulu Sea. Here, the Sama Dilaut, along with the Tausug and other Sama communities, struggle to make ends meet. Seaweed farming is an important livelihood, but fluctuating prices and a significant cut taken by middlemen make it difficult to sustain. The film also includes footage of the boat-dwelling community in Lahad Datu, which was dispersed several years ago.
The Sama Dilaut have traditionally viewed the sea as an endless source of life, a place where fish are plentiful for those willing to work hard and explore. However, over the years, this belief has been shaken by the reality of declining fish stocks, driven by overfishing, climate change, and destructive fishing methods such as trawling, dynamite fishing, and cyanide fishing.
The film has been screened in several European cities during the summer and autumn of 2023. It is a powerful way to highlight the challenges of the Sama communities, illustrating how climate change is already transforming the oceans and threatening the lives of the people who depend on them.
From May 22nd to May 24th, I had the opportunity to travel to Leipzig, Germany, where I visited the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology and met with PhD student Jae Rodriguez. This visit was both educational and inspiring, offering insights into the world of evolutionary anthropology and the fascinating research being conducted at this renowned institution. Only six months before my visit, Svante Pääbo, the director of the Department of Evolutionary Genetics at the institute, had been awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine for his groundbreaking work on Neanderthal genomes (Nobel Prize, 2022).
During my stay, I gave a presentation on the Bajau Laut titled “Sama Bajau: Lifestyle, History, Evolution” to a group of students, postdocs and senior scientists as part of their “Ocean’s Meeting” series. In my presentation, I delved into their rich history, cultural significance, and the political factors influencing their way of life. Additionally, I explored the physiological aspects of their connection to the sea, such as their remarkable sense of well-being while living on the water. Scientific studies support this connection, showing that the rocking of waves improves sleep quality (Perrault et al., 2019), natural water sounds enhance relaxation (Gould van Praag, 2017), consuming marine food improves sleep quality (St-Onge, 2016), and more.
Jae Rodriguez, the PhD student who hosted me, focuses his research on the genetic origins and adaptations of the indigenous inhabitants of the Sulu Archipelago in the Philippines. A significant part of Jae’s research involves samples from over 2,000 Sama Bajau individuals in the southwestern Philippines, particularly around Tawi-Tawi, which are carefully stored in one of the institute’s labs. This material is crucial for mapping the Sama Bajau’s history and gaining a broader understanding of their genetic adaptations and unique lifestyle. It would be fascinating to delve deeper into the genetic sequences related to spleen size that Melissa Ilardo studied when she researched Bajau Laut divers in central Sulawesi, Indonesia. She found that the Bajau Laut in the area had undergone natural selection for larger spleens over at least a few thousand years (Ilardo et al., 2018).
I first met Jae Rodriguez at a conference in the Philippines in 2015, and we have kept in touch since then. It was a true pleasure to meet up with Jae in Leipzig and discuss the Bajau’s history, lifestyle, evolution, and future challenges, as well as other aspects of human evolution.
Jae also gave me a tour of the Max Planck Institute, including an exhibition on the ground floor about human history. I was looking forward to meeting Svante Pääbo, who also hails from Sweden, but despite his office being wide open, he was not around at the time. Outside his office, a Neanderthal skeleton was on display. Pääbo was the first scientist to sequence the entire genome of a Neanderthal, proving that Homo sapiens and Neanderthals had shared offspring, which has medical implications still today (Pääbo et al., 2010). A few years later, he also sequenced Denisovan DNA, revealing genetic traces in modern humans, particularly in Southeast Asian island populations, where up to 5% of some groups’ genes come from Denisovans (Reich et al., 2011). These discoveries have changed our understanding of the complexity of human evolution and made us realize how similar we are to our closest cousins who live on within us.
The institute itself is a dream destination for anyone interested in human evolution. It brings together scientists from diverse fields, including natural sciences and humanities, to investigate human history through interdisciplinary research. Their work includes comparative analyses of genes, cultures, cognitive abilities, languages, and social systems of both past and present human populations, as well as primates closely related to humans. The institute also hosts young doctoral students from around the world who delve into historical and genetic research from their own regions (Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology).
My visit to the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology was a remarkable journey into the depths of human history and genetics. The opportunity to share my research on the Bajau Laut, explore cutting-edge scientific work, and connect with passionate scholars made this trip an unforgettable experience. As the field of genetics rapidly develops, new methods for analyzing ancient fossils will hopefully emerge. These new findings will reveal that even more populations have contributed to who we are today, making us even more humble about our origins and who we are.
References
Gould van Praag, C. D. et al. (2017). “The Influence of Natural Sounds on Attention and Mood.” Scientific Reports. Retrieved from nature.com.
Ilardo, M. A. et al. (2018). “Physiological and Genetic Adaptations to Diving in Sea Nomads.” Cell. Retrieved from cell.com.
Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology. “About Us.” Retrieved from eva.mpg.de.
Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology. “Prof. Dr. Svante Pääbo.” Retrieved from eva.mpg.de.
Nobel Prize. “The Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine 2022.” Retrieved from nobelprize.org.
Pääbo, S. et al. (2010). “A Draft Sequence of the Neandertal Genome.” Science. Retrieved from science.org.
Perrault, A. A. et al. (2019). “Rocking Promotes Sleep in Humans.” Current Biology. Retrieved from cell.com.
Reich, D. et al. (2011). “Denisova Admixture and the First Modern Human Dispersals into Southeast Asia and Oceania.” American Journal of Human Genetics. Retrieved from cell.com.
St-Onge, M. P. et al. (2016). “Fish Consumption and Sleep Quality.” Journal of Clinical Sleep Medicine. Retrieved from jcsm.aasm.org.
In April, I made a trip to Indonesia along with Eric Mulder, a doctoral student at the Department of Health Sciences at Mid-Sweden University. He is researching increased safety in free diving to prevent blackout. We went to Sampela in Wakatobi, a place I first visited in 2011 and have re-visited several times. Post-COVID, no airlines operate on the main island Wangi Wangi, so it took us three days to reach Sampela from Makassar.
“Half of Sampela live abroad,” my host Pondang said. “Many inhabitants have moved to other parts to Indonesia, as for example Johor, to make a living”. Some of the better fishermen were away, while others had returned. The fisherman Jahajudin who caught a barracuda back in 2016 had just come back from working on a plantation in Kalimantan. In 2012, he was photographed during a fishing trip by Al Jazeera, posing proudly and calmly on his boat. Now, he lacked swimming goggles but borrowed a pair before accompanying us on one of our daily fishing trips with Pondang. “Fishing isn’t as good anymore,” he explained when I asked why he wasn’t fishing as much as before. “The small fish don’t get a chance to grow.” I remembered how, in 2011, he had been part of a net fish drive (ngambai) team and how he had thrown small fish back into the water.
Catching Octopus with a Fake Lure
In the community, we made several daily trips with ten of the best local speargun fishermen. Eric has been involved in developing a pulse oximeter that can be used during active diving, which the Sama Bajau fishermen wore during our fishing trips. A pulse oximeter measures heart rate and peripheral oxygen saturation (often abbreviated as SpO2), an indicator of how much oxygen is being transported by hemoglobin in the blood to the body’s peripheral parts, such as fingertips, earlobes, and toes. If saturation is low, it can lead to a blackout.
During one of our daily fishing trips, we met an old man named Laharumu on a small boat. He had paddled all the way from Sampela, bringing a small sail with him. He lay flat with his face under the water surface, holding a line leading to a fake octopus, which he used to lure potential octopus prey. “When he catches an octopus, he bites it between the eyes,” Pondang explained, just like many Sama Bajau do in Kabalutan, central Sulawesi, which I had the opportunity to film in 2017.
On our way back, Laharumu came paddling again, showing us a small octopus he had caught despite a long day on the sea. I felt sorry for him – here was an old Sama Bajau fisherman using no motorized vessel, paddling for miles, and luring octopuses by mimicking their behavior. This type of fishing is much less harmful than the practices used by other Sama Bajau and the larger Indonesian community. His way of living is quickly disappearing due to the rapidly deteriorating environment and accelerating ocean heat. In sharp contrast, one fisherman from the community asked if I could bring him a sonar fish finder next time I visit the village.
Remembering Tadi – A Speargun Fisherman Throughout His Life
Tadi, another well-known man in the community and the father of several good fishermen, both men and women, had recently passed away. Even in his late age, he sustained himself solely from speargun fishing and was well aware of marine life and potential dangers at sea.
I remembered one occasion when he was sitting outside his house holding a poisonous sea snake between his fingers. “Ngei njeke” (it doesn’t bite), he said when I asked about the snake.
One day, when the fishermen were taking turns in the water wearing the pulse oximeter, Kabei, the son of Tadi, who was featured in the BBC’s production “Hunter of the South Seas” from 2015, shot fish while standing up in the boat with his speargun. First, Pondang’s son threw in bait from a parrot fish that lured fish, and when the fish came close to the surface, Kabei shot them. On one occasion, he shot two fish to the delight of the rest of us.
Sampela: A Community Under Pressure
Sampela is located inside Wakatobi National Park, which consists of four major islands where only small-scale fishing is permitted. The park also has a small core no-go zone. Even so, fish are on the decline in the area. Just outside of Kaledupa, there are extensive reefs, but large fish are becoming sparse.
This time, I could not see any sea urchins in the vicinity of Sampela which before had been in abundance – most likely because of consumption. I also saw fishermen net fishing small fish that feed on waste from the community under the stilt houses. Both these observations indicate increasingly tight living conditions in the area.
Tradition and Modernity in Sama Bajau Communities
One day, we traveled to the opposite side of Kaledupa, where another Sama Bajau community, Mantigola, is located. Compared to Sampela, Mantigola is very silent and less busy even though it is the oldest Sama Bajau community in Wakatobi. “Many people have become rich here,” Pondang explained. “Many of them have completed Haji, which only few people in Sampela have.” While walking on the bridges, we could see some wealthy buildings and very few people. The cheerful greetings that are very common in Sampela were largely absent.
In Sampela and other Sama Bajau villages, different parts of the village have distinct characters; some areas are more adapted to modern ways while others maintain traditional lifestyles. Some residents hold on to traditional beliefs, which can be described as a syncretism of Islam and animism, while others have fully embraced Islam. These differences, along with the various pressures from wider society and traditional norms, can literally be felt as one walks through Sampela.
However, there are also many people from neighboring groups who have fully assimilated into Indonesian Sama Bajau communities. For example, one participant in our diving study was a man whose parents both came from outside the village and were born non-Bajau (or “bagay” as the Indonesian Bajau call them), yet they had integrated fully into the Sama community. It is very common for Bajau to marry neighboring people and become assimilated into Sama culture, and vice versa. After a few decades, there is no visible difference between them and the “original” Sama Bajau. Genetic tests have shown that the Sama Bajau are more closely related to neighboring groups than to other Sama Bajau communities living distantly throughout Indonesia.
Vanishing Traditions
The likes of Laharumu are becoming increasingly rare. With dying oceans, unique and traditionally eco-friendly lifestyles are being lost. The Sama Bajau’s methods of fishing and their deep understanding of marine ecology, honed over generations, are invaluable. These traditional practices, which are less harmful to the environment, could be crucial in the future for sustainable fishing practices.
However, as their environment deteriorates rapidly, the knowledge and lifestyles of the Sama Bajau are also disappearing. Preserving their way of life is not just about saving a culture but also about safeguarding ecological wisdom that might be vital for the future of our oceans. If we lose the Sama Bajau and their traditional ecological knowledge, we risk forgetting valuable lessons in eco-friendly fishing methods and sustainable living.
Amidst the bustling activity of the Philippine night market in Kota Kinabalu, I found myself surrounded by the vibrant energy of fish vendors, children selling plastic bags, men and women in worn-out clothes transporting ice on wheelbarrows, and restaurant owners showcasing mantis shrimp and lobster in front of warm grills. This market, a microcosm of the larger economic struggles faced by the Sama Dilaut, became the starting point of my field trip to Sabah, Malaysia, aimed at collecting data for my thesis on the Sama Dilaut’s role in the economy and fishing industry.
At the turn of the year from 2022 to 2023, I embarked on this journey to delve into the lives and challenges of the Sama. Despite their hard work and exceptional fishing skills, they continually struggle with capital and opportunities, often finding themselves on the losing end of trade. To better understand their plight, I employed the “follow the thing” methodology, as elaborated by Appadurai, focusing on the seafood chain. Fish serve as a lens through which we can explore critical issues such as conservation, destructive fishing methods, and structural violence.
Kota Kinabalu: A Vibrant Market Scene
The trip began in Kota Kinabalu, the largest city and tourist hub in northern Sabah. This city hosts a bustling Philippine night market with various Sama Bajau groups from numerous Philippine Islands. The harbor, filled with trawlers, longliners, and shrimp boats, serves as a transit hub for fish trade. Across the water lies Pulau Gaya, home to many undocumented migrants from the Philippines. I engaged with local fish vendors, small seafood restaurant owners, Sama Dilaut children selling plastic bags, fish traders, boatmen, and more. As always, crowds gathered around me when they realized that I speak Sinama, often filming to boost their social media following. Common questions included how long I had been learning Sinama, if I could speak Malay or Tausug, if I was married and how much dowry is in my country.
One afternoon, I decided to visit Pondo on Pulau Gaya, which is designated a ‘no-go zone.’ At the informal jetty, I befriended a young Filipino man who helped me cross to Pondo, after carefully evading the Marine Police that controlled the area. We docked at Ridwan’s parents’ stilt house and walked towards the island, surrounded by excitement and friendly questions. A group of children followed us, asking for candy, which I promised to give later to avoid too much fuss. However, due to serious problems with drugs and glue-sniffing, it was unsuitable to stay long. After 30 minutes, we returned to the boat, bought candies for the kids, and headed back to the city.
Upon arrival, I found myself amidst a volleyball match between fish traders, who saw me arriving from the sea, leading to a relaxed atmosphere filled with questions and jokes.
Meetings with Stakeholders in Kota Kinabalu
In Kota Kinabalu, I met Terrence Lim, the director of Stop Fish Bombing Malaysia, an organization dedicated to combating destructive fishing methods. He shared insights into fish bombing, cyanide fishing, and the marginalization of the Sama Dilaut community. According to Terrence, “Fish trades can now be settled at sea. Everyone has a phone, and money is being sent online.” However, he explained that the Sama Dilaut cannot register SIM cards and are completely dependent on the informal cash-driven economy.
Terrence also mentioned, “Big fishing boats are using sonars for fishing, and there’s a growing concern about the difficulty of catching big fish, further marginalizing the Sama Dilaut community.” He further explained that the Sama Bajau are often on the losing end of negotiations, having to sell their fish quickly due to lack of storage and their statelessness.
Kudat: Exploring New Horizons
Next, I traveled to Kudat, located in the northernmost part of Sabah. The Tun Mustafa Marine Park is here, though it attracts fewer tourists compared to other popular destinations. My goal was to explore new areas where many Sama Dilaut from Semporna had moved in search of better opportunities. After purchasing ferry tickets—and taking photos with the young female vendors who recognized me from social media posts in Kota Kinabalu—I met the chief engineer, who shared insights about the area’s environmental issues, including pollution and acidification. Upon arrival, I realized that most residents were Ubian, a Sama group from an island near Tawi-Tawi in the Philippines.
I looked for someone to take me to Bankawan Island, east of Banggi, where Terrence had mentioned a recently established Sama Dilaut community. I met a group of older men who helped me find a boatman. Next morning, we drove towards a cluster of three anchored houseboats, and the people on them greeted us warmly with big smiles. One young father, holding his baby boy with a protective amulet around his neck and arm, pointed at me and said “melikan, melikan” while waving happily.
The meeting was full of contrasts. The father continued to socialize with his little child, who had likely seen a white person for the first time. This made it a special occasion for the Sama Dilaut, who generally hold white people in high regard, having had mostly positive experiences with them in the past. We talked about their fishing habits and how long they had been living in the area. The father on the boat said they had been there for a few years and showed me some shellfish and a lobster they were planning to sell in Karaket. A young boy wearing a Neymar Jr. t-shirt was fishing with a hook and line, while a young man standing on the roof of the larger houseboat asked for my phone number, holding up a mobile phone. They told me fishing was better in Kudat than in Semporna and that they didn’t plan to return to Semporna.
Before leaving, I offered cookies and money. We also spoke to other houseboats, learning about nearby Sama Dilaut communities around the Tun Mustafa Marine Park. We were invited to a water village, clearly visible on Google Earth, where we toured and saw sea cucumbers being farmed. The community consisted largely of undocumented migrants from the Philippines, making their living from fishing and fish farming.
Semporna: A Deep Dive into Local Life
The final destination was Semporna, where I have spent significant time during previous trips to Sabah. Over the years, I have established relationships with various people and places in Semporna, allowing me to gather valuable information. The central market, which had faced years of construction delays due to lack of funds and alleged corruption, was finally completed. However, it was mostly abandoned, with only the fruit and fish markets being utilized. The rest of the trade took place on small tables scattered around sidewalks and walkways, particularly in Kampung Air. Young boys had turned the new central market into a makeshift football field, giving the area an almost ghost-town feel.
Walking through Kampung Air, I noticed the bustling activity with small restaurants, cafes, and stalls selling various goods. The Sama Dilaut who had come to buy staples and sell fish were as always very silent, reflecting the everyday struggles they face, such as racism, poverty, statelessness, and difficulties in making a living at sea. All these challenges can be described as structural violence, a concept originally put forward by sociologist Johan Galtung. This violence has no clear beginning or end, and no single person to blame. It is embedded in the spaces in between—in the market, in the tone of the seller, in the waiting room at the health clinic, and in the long gazes on the street.This was later reflected when I stumbled across a few fishermen from Bangau Bangau who had brought in a sizable catch of cuttlefish. When I asked them how many days they had been out at sea, they replied, “Three days,” at which point the fish trader, who had just started to weigh their catch, said with disdain in his voice, “Sleeping, eating, and pooping on the boat,” whereupon the Sama men fell silent once again.
Further down the wooden bridges, I noticed dried moray eels being prepared for sale. A vendor explained that these eels are bought from fishermen for 5 RM (approximately $1.10 USD) per kilo, dried, and then sold for 15 RM (approximately $3.30 USD) per kilo in Tawau. This 200% increase in value highlights the inadequate compensation the Sama Dilaut receive for their livelihood.
At a nearby store selling fishing equipment, I observed items reflecting various fishing methods used in the area—spear gun fishing, hook and line fishing, net fishing, and compressor diving. The new fish market near Kampung Air was lively, with many people recognizing me from previous visits. The market offered a wide variety of fish, and I engaged with children selling plastic bags, who were amazed that I could speak Sinama.
Exploring Sama Villages and Marine Life with Sabah Parks
Following Sabah Parks on one of their tours, I visited the Sama Dilaut village of Tatagan, located at the foot of Mount Bod Gaya in the Tun Sakaran Marine Park. Despite tensions between Sabah Parks and the village, I met Kirihati, one of the few who still live on larger houseboats. He shared his experiences and the challenges of maintaining this traditional way of life. Kirihati was growing medicinal plants on the roof of his houseboat, and on land, he was in the process of building a new houseboat with the help of a skilled boat builder.
Later, we visited Bohey Dulang, where Sabah Parks had an exhibition about marine life, including an albino turtle—a rare and fascinating sight. The caretaker was thrilled to show us this unique addition to their collection, explaining that albino turtles are extremely rare.
The final stop was the paradise island of Sibuan, home to a small group of Sama Dilaut, Malaysian soldiers, and Sabah Park rangers. On Sibuan, we stumbled upon a Photo Safari session. Two overly talkative and enthusiastic interpreters, who were themselves Sama Bajau, urged all the Sama Dilaut children to line up. A group of tourists from the Malaysian mainland then handed out snacks to the children. Afterwards, mandatory photography ensued, and I was invited to participate.
Following Terence on a Busy Work Day
While in Semporna, I joined Terence, who had come down from Kota Kinabalu, on a day trip to check on his bomb-detecting sensors scattered throughout the area. Stop Fish Bombing Malaysia has over 10 sensors covering a large part of the sea. Terence explained that the number of explosions had dramatically decreased, especially near Bum Bum Island. However, some sensors had been bombed by fishermen who opposed the initiative. We also checked on a radar installed on Sanlakan Island, which helps track boats involved in fish bombing.
Visit to Bangau Bangau
One day, I visited Bangau Bangau, home to many Sama Dilaut who arrived from Sitangkai in the Philippines in the 1960s. Most villagers now have Malaysian Identity Cards, but many who came later remain undocumented. Some of the residents have become middlemen in the fishing trade or taken on regular jobs, with their cars parked next to the water bridges, while others continue as traditional fishermen.
I reconnected with an old friend, Si Wanti, a former boat driver who had taken me out to sea many times in the past. Now, he makes a living from small-scale net fishing. I gave him shark and coral fish posters in Sinama, which fascinated many of the elders. An old man living in the same compound as Wanti was particularly happy to see the shark poster. When I read out the names of the sharks to him, he was amazed that I even knew their names. He looked at the collage for a long time, identifying the sharks one after another. He was impressed that all the sharks had been put together in one photo and remarked that the person who took the photos must be very brave.
Reflections and Key Takeaways
Throughout my trip, I learned more about the fish value chain. For instance, moray eels are bought for 5 RM per kilo and sold for 15 RM per kilo in Tawau, representing a 200% increase in value. It’s clear that the Sama Dilaut are not adequately compensated for their hard work. They dive and fish under harsh conditions, only to sell their catch for a pittance, benefiting middlemen and end consumers who enjoy seafood at low prices. Industrial fishing forces down prices, leaving subsistence fishermen and the environment to pay the ultimate price.
People are constantly pushed to their limits, driven by physical needs and market forces. While only those higher up the value chain may become wealthy, the majority must keep pushing themselves and their environment daily. Despite the hardships, the Sama Dilaut have a deep fascination and love for the sea. They cherish moments of peace with their loved ones, swaying with the waves and watching the sunset after a fulfilling meal. However, their constant struggle for survival amidst harsh conditions places them in the grip of structural violence.
Fish serve as a lens through which we can explore important issues such as conservation, destructive fishing methods, and the structural violence faced by the Sama Dilaut. Despite their hard work and fishing skills, the Sama Dilaut continually struggle with capital and opportunities, often losing out in the economic trade. Most Sama Dilaut today live near marine national parks like Tun Sakaran Marine Park in Semporna and Tun Mustafa Marine Park in Kudat. These areas prohibit large-scale fishing, creating a niche for Sama Dilaut and other groups.
However, competition is intense, and resources are limited. Coral bleaching is already a concerning development in the area, threatening the delicate marine ecosystems that the Sama Dilaut depend on for their livelihood. Their resilience and deep connection to the sea highlight the need for greater support and sustainable practices to preserve their way of life and the marine environment they depend on. Ensuring the sustainability of these ecosystems is crucial not only for the Sama Dilaut but for the broader health of our oceans.
The resilience and deep connection to the sea exhibited by the Sama Dilaut, despite the immense challenges they face, underscore the urgent need for greater support and sustainable practices. By preserving their way of life and the delicate marine environment they depend on, we not only honor their rich cultural heritage but also safeguard the health of our oceans for future generations. Their story is a powerful reminder of the intricate bond between humans and nature, and the critical importance of fostering both community and environmental sustainability.
In the outskirts of Semporna there are more than 1 000 stateless Sama Dilaut. They live on remote islands in either stilt houses or houseboats with no right to basic health care. They also fear being deported to the Philippines and try to avoid the mainland.
They perceive the ocean as their home, but it can also be a trap in the longer run. There are several acute problems facing marine life, such as over fishing, coral bleaching, plastic pollution, acidification, and global warming.
With the current development, 90 % of all coral reefs will be dead by 2050. Carbon emissions have to to be cut by 8 % every year if we are to keep global warming within bearable limits. Corona is just the beginning.
In mid-January, I made a new trip to Malaysia and the Philippines to learn more about the Sama Dilaut and their day-to-day activities. The trip started in Semporna which seemed more crowded than ever before – there was a lot of Chinese tourists, more expensive homestays, one more KFC. The central market was still under construction as it has been for almost a decade.
The live fish market was still flourishing – Sama people were offering stone fish, lobster, groupers and mantis shrimps for sale every afternoon on the busy road near the port. At this time, rumors about the corona virus had just started, and the first cases had reached Sabah. “The Chinese are bringing a virus”, the local Bajau people told me. More and more people were wearing masks in the streets.
One day, I took a trip around the harbor with a local boatman, Pohon. We passed by a houseboat nearby Bangau Bangau. “There have been “operasis” in Bodgaya” they said and pointed to a mountain protruding from the sea. “We jumped on to the houseboat and left the area”. I was surprised by this news since the Sama are mostly left alone on the islands. The reason could be increasing tensions between the Sabah parks and the Bajau Laut communities inside the Tun Sakaran Marine Park. On islands such as Sibuan and Mantabuan there are restrictions on how many stilt houses that are allowed, and the Sama are prohibited to fish in their nearby surroundings.
Banking in Stateless Communities
Later, I was invited to by Pohon to his house in Labuan Haji, a community based on Bum Bum island just outside Semporna. Originally, he is from Sitangkai where he went to high school before coming to Sabah. He and his family of nine are still waiting for Malaysian identity cards. I was offered food, a fish head, rice and cassava. I was also given soy sauce, chili and salt to prepare for myself. Most of the people in Labuan Haji are without Malaysian documentation – many of them are from Philippine islands such as Siasi and Sitangkai. “Asigpit”, Pohons told me about his situation, there is a shortage of resources now.
As we were talking, two men in traditional shalwar kameez suddenly entered the stilt house. They were collecting utang, debts. One of the men had just arrived from Pakistan and was introduced to the banking business by his friend. The other man spoke Malay and he was also picking up some Sinama. After food we were talking outside the house next to a running washing machine. On the floor next to washing machine there was a brand-new boat engine. “It’s mine”, the street banker told me and glanced at a middle-aged man who was squatting by the machine looking at it with envy. “I’m waiting for installments”.
The next day we went on a fishing trip with local Bajau people. Pohon was organizing the trip – but it was not his boat, not his license. Without Malaysian documentation he can only rely on commission when taking tourists to the outer islands. His day-to-day work is to drive locals back and forth to Labuan Haji for 1 RM per passenger.
Visit in Numbak and MSU in Kota Kinabalu
After the visit to Semporna, I headed north to Kota Kinabalu – the metropolis of Sabah with direct flights to several Southeast Asian cities. One morning, I met the Malaysian anthropologist Sanen Marshall at University Malaysia Sabah (UMS). We headed towards the village of Numbak, where there is a big community of Sama Tabawan from the Philippines, as well as a small Sama Dilaut community. When we passed by the University Malaysia Sabah’s (UMS) walls Sanen activated his GPS and signed in to work before we continued towards the seaside. Nearby the community a long line of cars was lined up. It was Friday, so many people were staying at home. Next to the water bridges there was a mandatory volleyball court.
Everyone was speaking Sinama, and they greeted me happily. I was frequented with the question if I can sing Jumadin, whose origin is Tabawan. However, I had to disappoint people since it is my friend Luke Schroeder who entertained the audience in Semporna in a karaoke bar a few years ago. Jumadin himself is still missing for a few years after a Philippines-Malaysia crossing at sea.
Many people in Numbak are increasingly integrated into the Malay society, even if some of them are still struggling to get Malaysian citizenship. Many of the inhabitants work in shops, restaurants, and shopping malls in town.
“If we had lived in a houseboat, we would only have to pull up the anchor and leave in case of any unrest”, a Sama Dilaut woman living in a stilt house told me. She was one of the key informants of Sanan. Next to her sat her 14-year-old daughter who had previously worked in a restaurant in town but stopped because she felt insecure on the way home. Now she was missing her daily meals.
During our stay in the village, we also visited several older women who were making traditional abstractly designed mats called “tepo” – one of the specialties of Sama Tabawan. The mats are usually woven of pandanus strips and consist of a patterned upper layer with a plain under layer. They are normally used for sleeping, but they are also used during rituals and praying. In Semporna, I have seen older women Bangau Bangau selling them in the streets.
Later we headed towards MSU for lunch and a meeting with one of Sanen Marshall’s former students. On the way, Sanen stopped at nearby a storehouse belonging to the university and changed to his formal dress.
“We are working on a program in which street children can get training in a learning center”, Sanen explained when we sat in the university cafeteria. “We want to keep them away from the streets”.
Many Sama Dilaut children sell plastic bags in the night market before they return to Pulau Gaya with their families who also make a living from the market. Others live in the streets under bridges.
Sanan Marshall also stated that the Malaysian authorities don’t have a special category for the sea-based Bajau Laut in the Malaysian migratory Act. However, practically, the sea-based Bajau Laut are mostly left alone by the local officials – at least if they hold on to their traditional lifestyle. At an International Conference on Bajau-Sama Communities (ICBC), held in Sabah 2004, the Governor spoke about the Sama Dilaut as “part of Sabah’s cultural mosaic”. In many of the islands, stateless Bajau people live nearby military outposts.
“However, when the Bajau Laut linger too long in town they might be arrested and deported”, Sanen Marshall explained.
Meeting with New York Times Writer Ben Mauk in Kota Kinabalu
In Kota Kinabalu I also met with the Berlin-based American award-winning writer Ben Mauk who presently writes an anthology about the conditions for stateless and marginalized people in Asia.
We met up at the seashore where we took a boat over to Pulau Gaya – or more specifically the village of Pondo which is generally characterized as a “no-go zone” because it is inhabited by many so called illegal Philippine refugees. As we entered, I was immediately recognized by people who had seen one movie widely shared in social media in which I speak Bajau, and a group of enthusiastic children immediately accompanied us. We stopped nearby the volleyball court where we talked to people about livelihood and statelessness.
“For men it is risky to be in town, it’s easier for the women”, one man said. “But it is very rare that the police come here, unless they suspect drug abuse”.
After the trip to Pondo, we visited a neighboring more integrated community on Pulau Gaya. I talked to a group of women about statelessness, but some of them got upset. “Why do you ask about IC?”, one woman asked suspiciously.
“Kudat is the New Center for Boat Living Sama Dilaut”
The same evening, we had food in the Philippine Night market where we were accompanied by Terence Lim who is a production’s consultant for Scuba Zoo, a Borneo-based film and production agency who has been involved in many productions on Bajau Laut, as for example Sulbin’s world famous stride under water. Terence estimated that the numbers of boat-dwelling Bajau Laut were reducing in Semporna.
“The bigger boats are disappearing in Semporna”, he said. “The problem is that the house boats are costly to build and maintain, and that fishing is getting increasingly difficult”. He concluded that larger, commercially important fish is getting scarce outside the marine protected zones. He also reported that the number of tourists were declining drastically in Semporna due to the ongoing corona outbreak. This was early February.
Terrence told me that he had been facilitating trips to Kudat, that has become one of the new strongholds for Sama Dilaut boat-dwellers. A large Sama Dilaut community has been established on the east side of the Bankawan Island inside the Tun Mustapha Marine Park, which can be seen on satellite photos from Google Earth.
“There are probably more houseboats in Kudat than in Semporna nowadays”, Terence told me.
The same evening I waked through the Night market on my way home. “Ikan baru” (fresh fish), one young Bajau woman told me while I passed by her temporary stand. She didn’t address me in English, but in Malay. “Are you often addressing foreigners in Malay? I asked her”. “I don’t know any English”, she replied. Children immediately came up to me with their plastic bags, happily shouting. “He speaks Bajau!”. “He speaks Bajau!”.
Davao coastal road – a Four-lined Road Next to Coastal Communities
After my stay in Malaysia, I went on to Davao city in Philippines – the place where I first got in touch with the Sama Dilaut ten years ago. Some things had not changed significantly– most of the inhabitants of around 400 were still making a living from selling secondhand shoes and clothes, and there was still a group of fulltime fishermen (they mostly use the speargun) and freshwater pearl vendors.
However, an extensive road construction project was underway on the seaside. A four-lined coastal road (Davao City Coastal Bypass Road) is being built just outside the community, and the fishermen need to take their boats through a tunnel below the road to get to sea. The road construction is part of Duterte’s administration’s “Build, Build, Build” program and aims to strengthen Davao’s economic muscles. As always, the inhabitants were supportive of the political leadership, and only a few criticized the road project that will severely disturb the community life upon completion. The living space has already been reduced and a few houses have been relocated.
During my stay in Davao, I had the opportunity to follow on a fishing trip with a few families I know. For ten years I have followed Issau and his son Noah at sea – and it is impressive to see how Noah has developed over the years. It is clear that it takes a lot of training and hard work to become a full-fledged fisherman, which does not only mean that one should be good at diving and aiming, but also that one should know a wide range of fish and their specific behavior, master a boat, and quickly identify potential dangers. This can only be made possible by at least a decade of knowledge transfer from older to younger, and it is sad to see that the regrowth among the younger ones is a fraction of what it used to be. It is also sad to realize that the younger generation encounters a sea far different from the one their fathers grew up in.
Manila – Shark Fin Soup in the Grand Opera
The last day – before catching my flight back to Sweden – I spent some time in Manila, where I walked down the M. Adriatico street – a Malate street that cuts right through top end night clubs and hotels, and poor areas were many Bajau and other migrants from southern Philippines dwell. Even here I was well-known – people greeted me as “the white guy from Facebook that can speak Sinama”. Here, many Bajau people facilitate the nightlife scene, while others sell jewelry and beg for money. Some of them are Bajau Laut, while others belong to other Sama groups from the Zamboanga region.
At the end of the street a large number of Sama had gathered to prepare the supper meal; cassava, fish, mango and chili. One woman told me that she had family in Semporna and she asked for help to get back there. One Bajau man said that he used to work for Smorgasbord & Bar as a doorman. “It’s own by a Swedish guy”, he told me.
In Manila, testing for corona virus was getting more and more common. One of the earliest fatalities due to the virus outside of China took place here.
During my stay, I also visited Manila Grand Opera Hotel, located in the same building as the former Manila Grand Opera House which closed in the 1970’s. On the walls, they display pictures of early 20th century high society. On the menu, they serve expensive shark fin soup meals for 2000 pesos (approximately 40 USD).
The Bajau Laut are still providers of shark fins and other lucrative marine species throughout the coral triangle. Perhaps debt is the best way to make it continue. The Bajau are paid for future catch. Hence, their equipment, household equipment and petrol is still at sea. In the shape of groupers, mantis shrimps and shark fins. And the interest rate is high. Not only for the Sama Dilaut, also for the sea.
In mid-March, the English version of Radio Television Hong Kong’s (RTHK) documentary on Bajau Laut has finally been released. In the film, we can follow three different Bajau families in Semporna whose lives have been intertwined in different ways depending on historical and socio-political circumstances. I was a managing supervisor in the production that was recorded in December 2018.
The Aquatic Ape 