Sharing with others is a very strong ethical value in the cultures of many peaceful societies, including that of the Inuit. A news report from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation posted on December 24 illustrated that tradition, but with an up-to-date twist.

Nanook Fareal, a young woman, was born in an Inuit community in Northern Canada and moved to Toronto ten years ago with her father. However, he died five years later. She was left homeless, struggled with addictive substances, and faced hunger.

The NorthMart store in Iqaluit
The NorthMart store in Iqaluit, the capital of Nunavut, sells food and general merchandise (Image by Axel Drainville on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

More recently, she began investigating the prices of food in the markets of Inuit communities of Nunavut, where some people go hungry. She discovered that basic necessities in those markets cost far more than in the rest of Canada. The CBC report pictures a jug of orange juice on display in a grocery store in Iqaluit, the capital of Nunavut, with the price labeled prominently as $26.29.

Fareal found from her investigation that a case of drinking water could cost over $100.00, and lettuce might be priced at $30.00 per head. Many people in the North cannot afford such prices and are forced to eat a less healthy diet of cheaper junk foods.

So she decided to do something about it by starting a crowdfunding campaign to send Christmas food packages north. She asked for $5,000 on gofundme.com and, as of December 26, had raised $6,214. Her focus on the extremely high prices of basic foods in the North apparently resonated with her friends and other Canadians.

She told the interviewer on the CBC program Metro Morning about her own experiences: of going hungry and of not knowing where she would sleep at night. So she and her partner decided to forgo Christmas presents this year and instead devote their resources to sending food aid north—with the help of an organization called Helping Our Northern Neighbours. They will use the funds raised through gofundme to ship foods to needy Inuit families in Nunavut or the Northwest Territories.

Her crowdfunding page includes images of numerous other basic foods with very high prices in the markets of Canada’s north. Her point is that foods cost almost 10 times more in Nunavut than they do in Toronto and other southern Canadian cities. A two liter jug of fruit juice costs $37.89, whereas everywhere else in Canada it would cost around $4.00; a 12-pack of Shweppes ginger ale was priced at $82.49 compared to about $6.00 elsewhere.

Appealing for funds, Ms. Fareal writes on her page, “Please help me help my people.” She told the CBC that the project has taught her a lot about her own culture, allowing her to reconnect with her roots. “For most of my life, I didn’t know anything about my culture. And this past year, I’ve just learned so much,” she said.

It is not clear from the news story or from her crowdfunding page if Ms. Fareal is aware of the importance of giving and sharing foods in traditional Inuit culture. Damas (1972) provides an excellent overview of the complexities of food sharing systems among different Inuit communities. They depended, he writes, on differing food sources and evolved their own unique ways of sharing available foods. Some developed food partnerships while others had communal meals. In all of their differing systems, sharing was based partly on kinship and partly on common residence.

Condon (1990) explained that the traditional economic system of the Inuit was based largely on the sharing that prevailed when they lived out on the land, but it has largely been replaced by the economic security of wage employment or government assistance. These sources of income have eliminated the uncertainty of their traditional existence, which necessitated the sharing economy. However, Condon writes, the price of the security has been that families have become more individualized and less dependent on sharing and cooperation. Those values are no longer imparted to the younger generation.

If Ms. Fareal is aware of the anthropological reports about her culture, perhaps she realizes that her crowdfunding campaign is a contemporary way to reinvigorate the giving and sharing roots of Inuit society. Irwin (1990) indicates that those sharing relationships were important aspects of their traditional culture of peacefulness.

A news report from the U.K. last week described the recent visit of the British photographer Joshua Gray to the Batek living near the Taman Negara National Park in Malaysia. He was invited by the group Ecoteer—referred to as FuzeEcoteer in an earlier news story—to use his skills as a videographer and photographer to document the work of the volunteer agency.

The forest canopy of the Taman Negara National Park
The forest canopy of the Taman Negara National Park (Photo by Vladimir Yu. Arkhipov, Arkhivov in Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

Gray was based in the small town of Merapoh, located just outside the northwestern border of the huge park. A 20-year old student from Lewes who is studying at Falmouth University in the U.K., Gray told the newspaper that Ecoteer conducts walks through the forests to look for signs of tigers and, hopefully by their very presence, to deter poaching. In the course of their activities, the visitors also get to meet some Batek. Gray apparently got to interact with the Batek quite a bit.

He described the fact that they formerly lived nomadically in the forest, but around 30 years ago they were resettled by the government out of the national park and into a village. But, he added, they still rely heavily on forest products, though they are slowly adopting the foods and technology of the surrounding Malays.

Gray suspected that if present trends continue, the Batek will lose their “unrivaled jungle knowledge.” He indicated that Ecoteer employs some of the Batek men as guides and some of the women as organizers of camping trips. He commented on their amazing knowledge of the forest.

The newspaper report includes a link to Gray’s blog, which provides more details on his work and his trip. He published an entry on October 1, 2015, which indicated that he first traveled to Malaysia in 2014 as a volunteer with Ecoteer, primarily for an ecology project focused on the Perhentian Islands off the east coast of the Malay Peninsula. In the course of that trip he had some time to also visit Merapoh and the Batek villages.

He returned in the summer of 2015 to spend eight weeks in the forest studying the wildlife and visiting the Batek. He said that their children are not learning their ancestral language well—they are learning to speak a mixture of Batek and Malay, and they are having a hard time conversing with their elders.

He was amazed by the forest knowledge of both the Batek men and women. He sensed their shyness at first around their visitors, but in time they became quite comfortable around Gray and the other outsiders. He taught classes in English to the Batek children as he amassed thousands of images, which he plans to upload into his page at the photo marketplace website 500px.com.

Gray’s blog entry includes two photos of Batek adults, one an image of a man holding a plant and the second, an image of a woman holding a large knife, captioned “One of the Batek ladies foraging in the jungle.”

The languages spoken by the Orang Asli of Malaysia preserve their wisdom, social concepts, environmental knowledge, and, for some, their beliefs about peacefulness. Preserving the languages and cultures of indigenous societies, such as that of the Semai, is a major issue for the people. It could be argued that preserving a healthy cultural diversity should also be important for larger nation states, such as Malaysia.

Semai children
Semai children (Image by tian yake on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

At times, Malaysia has appeared to be insensitive to the need to educate aboriginal children in their own ways as well as in the critical subjects of the modern world. Two news stories last year, one in July and the other in December, pointed out some of the difficulties that rural Semai communities sometimes have in just transporting their children to schools, much less the disappointments they face with teachers and schools that are repressive, culturally insensitive, and substandard.

Dr. Alias Abd Ghani, a lecturer from the Universiti Sains Malaysia, presented a much more positive impression of the improvements that Malaysia is making for the Semai children than those two news stories did in 2014. He gave a paper on revitalizing the Semai language at the 1st Asia-Pacific Conference on Advanced Research, held at the Education Development Centre, Adelaide, South Australia, July 23 – 24, 2015, which is freely available on the Internet.

Dr. Ghani focused on the efforts made by the Semai more than 15 years ago to promote the usage of their language by their young people—to keep it alive—and the responses by the government, starting in 1996, to address the issue. In addition to reviewing government literature and statistics, Ghani writes in his report that he interviewed Semai speakers, teachers in Semai schools, and government education officials. He also observed at a school in the town of Bidor, in Perak State.

He wrote that government officials and Semai representatives formed a committee in 1996 to address the concerns of the Semai people about the preservation of their culture through preserving their language. The committee was composed of people from the Curriculum Development Centre in the Ministry of Education, the government’s Department of Orang Asli Affairs, the Association of Orang Asli in Peninsular Malaysia, the Orang Asli Headmen, and some Semai teachers.

The group reached a consensus that Semai should be the first Orang Asli language to be included in the primary schools of Peninsular Malaysia. Semai would be taught by trained teachers and it would be included in the curriculum in addition to instruction in the two major languages of the country, English and Malay.

Two years later, the Semai Language Program was approved for the national curriculum. In 1998, six primary schools at Level I in Perak participated in a pilot program, and the following year six schools began teaching Semai at Level II. Semai language teaching was allotted 120 minutes per week of instruction time in the school programs.

Dr. Ghani indicated that the coordinating committee also began to prepare documentation of the Semai language. It developed a spelling system based on the Roman letters used for written Malay. He argued that the program of language revitalization in Perak has been well received by the Semai community and it appears to be quite successful. A few years later it was introduced into the schools in Pahang state. By 2001, the two states had 24 schools in which Semai was taught, including 41 trained teachers and 19 more resource teachers. By 2013-2014, the number of schools participating had grown to 28.

Ghani concluded that teaching Semai in the schools allows the Semai children to participate in an instruction program that focuses on their own cultural heritage. The program helps foster a positive self-identification among the Semai people, as it promotes preserving their language and valuing their cultural heritage. It could pave the way for revitalizing the other Orang Asli societies of Peninsular Malaysia.

Ghani, Alias Abd. 2015. “Revitalizing the Indigenous Semai Orang Asli Language in Malaysia.” Paper presented at the First Asia Pacific Conference on Advanced Research, Adelaide, South Australia

A delegation from Tahiti recently visited a Maori community in New Zealand in order to study their approaches to teaching their language to children, since the use of Tahitian is dying out.

Maori children
Maori children from the Te Kohanga Reo program dance and tell stories in Dunedin, N.Z. (Image by Dunedin Public Libraries on Flickr, Creative Commons license)

The Rotorua Daily Post published a story last week about the visit and the kohanga reo system (literally, “language nest”) developed by the Maori to immerse their young children in their own language from infancy until they reach school age.

The Tahitian group visited Rotorua, a city on New Zealand’s North Island that serves as an important tourist destination and a center for Maori culture. The Rotorua Lakes Council welcomed the Tahitian Puna Reo delegation. Trevor Maxwell, cultural ambassador for the Rotorua Lakes Council and a District Councilor, played a ukulele with a band composed of Tahitians while traditional songs and dances were sung. Mr. Maxwell said that he has been to Tahiti twice and he has learned some of their songs. He was glad to welcome the Tahitians.

The Tahitians had heard about the kohanga reo movement 10 years ago and contacted a trustee of the movement, Derek Te Ariki Morehu. Mr. Morehu helped the Tahitians establish a similar movement which they called Tahitian Puna Reo. The Puna Reo people traveled to New Zealand to study the Maori culture and to see what additional ideas they could pick up about developing pathways they could take to foster their own Tahitian culture.

Mr. Morehu’s daughter, Heeni Morehu, said that the Tahitian visitors received no financial support from their own government, so they had to secure the funding for their trip themselves. But, she said, they are very eager learners. “They have become part of our family,” she indicated.

The secretary of the Tahitian delegation, Dom Leoture, told the reporter that a group from New Zealand had traveled to Tahiti 30 years ago to learn about their culture. Now, the Tahitians are the ones reaching out for assistance. The Tahitians intend to present a petition to the government of France, which still controls Tahiti and the rest of the Society Islands, to start programs in their schools that will teach Tahitian.

The news story in the Rotorua Daily Post includes a 47-second video clip of Trevor Maxwell playing his ukulele with some of the Tahitian visitors.

Three years ago, in September 2012, two dozen Ladakhi Buddhists decided to convert to Islam, and the social relations in the area, which had been harmonious for centuries, took a severe nosedive. The conversions, and the subsequent strife, took place in Padum, the administrative center of Zanskar, which is a remote mountainous region of the Kargil District in Ladakh.

The people of Padum
The people of Padum on one of their seemingly peaceful streets in 2014 (Image by Raphael Affentranger in Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Despite the fact that a prominent book published in 2015, Fire and Ice by Jonathan Mingle, characterized the people of Zanskar, and the Padum area in particular, as highly peaceful—more so, perhaps, than the rest of Ladakh—news reports over the past few weeks about the consequences of those conversions three years ago cast doubt on the ability of that community to retain its traditional harmony.

Last week, a news service in India explained that the Buddhist community in Zanskar was inflamed three years ago by the news that two dozen people were about to convert to Islam. The Zanskar Buddhist Association (ZBA) alleged that the conversions were being forced on 24 Buddhists, which the ZBA hotly denounced. The Muslims supposedly accepted the converts eagerly—even going so far, so the story goes, of welcoming them with a sort of victory parade. Zanskar has nearly 14,000 inhabitants, 95 percent of whom are Buddhists and 5 percent Sunnni Muslims, according to the report.

Sikander Khan, a 66-year old Muslim in Padum, said that the next month, October 2012, local officials in the town called a meeting with the Muslims to discuss the security of the converts. He wanted to find ways of accommodating the Buddhist demands. While they were involved in the meeting, however, Buddhists gathered and marched on the Muslim neighborhood, attacking and ransacking homes. Officials in the meeting kept the Muslims inside until the situation was under control. Fifteen Muslims were injured in the attack, two of them seriously enough that they had to be taken by air to Srinagar for medical treatment.

The ZBA quickly imposed a forceful social boycott on the Muslin minority, making their lives quite difficult. The boycott continues to this day. Sikander explained that the ZBA has prohibited all economic and social relations between the two communities.

The Muslims find that the vast majority of stores, owned by Buddhists, will not sell anything to them. Likewise, Buddhists are not permitted to patronize Muslim shops. If a Buddhist is caught in a Muslin store, he has to pay a large fine.

A vegetable and fruit vendor in his stall in Padum
A vegetable and fruit vendor in his stall in Padum in 2014 (Image by Raphael Affentranger in Flickr, Creative Commons license)

Muslims in Padum complain that they are not getting help from local officials and politicians. Tsering Angdus, Executive Councillor, spoke sympathetically for the Buddhist position in the continuing dispute. “Back in 2012 when Buddhists embraced Islam then the Muslims from Padum took out [a] procession in the town holding the converts on [their] shoulders like they had won a World Cup.”

He went on to say that he is doing his best to end the boycott and to restore normal relations. But, he argued, it will take time for the social wounds to heal. He felt it would be best if some of the non-governmental organizations would get involved and try to help end the boycott.

Another official, Panchok Tashi, who is a nominated councilor, denied that there is a social boycott in Padum, but he added that private merchants can’t be forced to sell to people with whom they do not wish to have relations.

In August 2015, Muslim business people and taxi drivers in Padum arranged for a meeting with the leaders of the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council, Kargil. The meeting included both Panchok Tashi and Tsering Angdus. They heard the grievances of the Muslims and promised to intervene. But months later, nothing has changed. The Muslims are running out of options.

Nazar Mohammad, a 54-year old Muslim farmer, complained bitterly about the situation. He said that the boycott has made their lives very difficult. They cannot build anything because the Buddhists control the areas along the Tsarap River next to town, a tributary of the Zanskar River, where builders need to take sand and stones for construction purposes. The barter system among neighboring farmers has been the basis of local life, “but the social boycott has brought doom to it,” he said.

Sajjad Hussain, a freelance journalist based in Kargil, has been closely following the boycott. “Our Buddhist brothers have always been peace-loving persons and have remained harmoniously with Muslims [for] centuries,” he said. He blamed a right-wing Hindu nationalist group that has widespread influence throughout India, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (usually referred to as the RSS), as being the primary instigator of the troubles.

A different news story published on December 2 reported that the Muslims in Zanskar are even getting very hungry. “We are on the verge of starvation. We seek intervention of Mufti Muhammad Sayeed [the Chief Minister of the state of Jammu and Kashmir] to save our lives. The majority community (Buddhists) has snapped all links with us,” a group of Muslims told the news service.

News reports in January 2015 indicated that the Ladakh Buddhist Association protested what it claimed at that time were incidents of Muslim men in Zanskar luring Buddhist women into marriages. These actions occurred in late 2014 and early 2015, according to a letter quoted in the press that the LBA had sent to Indian Prime Minister Modi.

While the reporting of these events in various press accounts may not be completely impartial, they do give the reader a sense of the tensions that exist between the Buddhists and the Muslims of the Zanskar region in Ladakh.

A coastal fishing village in Rural Thailand is being submerged by the rising seas, according to a haunting feature in Al Jazeera last week published as an exclamation point to the climate change negotiations in Paris.

A fishing village south of Bangkok
A fishing village south of Bangkok on the Gulf of Thailand coast in Samut Prakan province (image by User Mattes in the Wikipedia; public domain)

Samut Chin, the fishing village, is located about 50 km. south of Bangkok on the coast of the Gulf of Thailand in Samut Prakan province. It is relatively near the capital but in terms of its natural environment it is a world away, for it is literally being swallowed up by the waves. The sea has penetrated about a kilometer farther inland than it was not long ago.

Other human activities such as the destruction of the mangroves and the damning of rivers have harmed the environment, but the rising sea level is taking an especially hard toll on the people. According to Al Jazeera, the villagers are losing their lands at a rapid rate. Unlike the investments of financial investors, who sometimes hold options on stocks that have become worthless and are said to be “underwater,” many families in Samut Chin have deeds to very real properties that are quite literally “under water.”

The reporter, Jack Picone, spoke with the head of the village, Samorn Khengsamut, a middle-aged woman who exuded a lot of energy. She said that the community has been dealing with the rising sea level for 30 years, and they have had to move to higher ground. She told him that they worry they’ll soon run out of higher lands to move to. They’ve erected temporary seawalls out of concrete and bamboo, but all they do is slow down the destruction.

The advancing sea has inundated the village school—all that remains of it is a concrete block visible in the waves. Only the Buddhist temple, the symbolic heart of the village, remains, now located on a small island that the monks persist in fortifying with ever-higher breakwaters against the Gulf of Thailand.

Mr. Picone talked with the monks at the temple who indicated that the local people have not been told what is really happening. Storms raise the waves, so in response the monks have been raising the floor in the temple—almost two meters, in fact, so they can continue to pray safely.

The journalist reviews the discussions of climate scientists, most of whom agree on the basics of climate change. And of course the diplomats in Paris have negotiated global measures to cut back on the anthropogenic causes of the warming earth. But the front line of the issue is not in Paris—it’s on the Gulf of Thailand. The residents of the once-prosperous, but increasingly impoverished village, don’t have the luxury of debating global climate change, much less getting involved in the politics of combating it. They have to deal with it on a day to day basis as best they can, trying to cope with each centimeter of rising water.

The village leader, Samorn Khengsamut, concludes, “It’s very frightening and stressful.”

Indian photojournalist Nikhil Roshan visited Passingdang, a village in the Dzongu Reserve of Sikkim, to assess the feelings of the Lepcha toward the proposed dams that threaten their culture and society. Roshan used the possible destruction of the free flowing Teesta River and its tributaries in northern Sikkim as a jumping off point for a wide-ranging review of Lepcha beliefs and practices which was published on November 27.

He published similar information in an even longer essay, with more details about the stresses and beliefs of the Lepcha, two months earlier, on September 21. The two essays vary, but the earlier one has more information and should be studied carefully by anyone interested in the unique perspectives of the Lepcha people.

Buddhist monk
Ren Likden Rongkup, a Buddhist monk, praying at his monastery in Passingdang, Sikkim (Photo by Nikhil Roshan on the website Vikalp Sangam, Creative Commons license)

Roshan begins his September essay by interviewing Ren Likden Rongkup, a Buddhist monk, in a monastery located on a hill above Passingdang. “We are resigned to our fate, but I believe that our faith will save us from the dam,” the monk tells the author. His comments reflect the general mood Roshan finds in the community. People are weary of the struggle, but they are watchful and not about to give up. He writes that in 2004 the government of Sikkim proposed seven large dams inside the Dzongu Reserve generating almost 1000 megawatts of hydropower.

The Lepcha believe that the Teesta and its tributaries represent pathways for their souls to travel up to Kanchenjunga, the sacred mountain on the western border of Sikkim and the third highest point on the globe. Construction of the dams and tunnels would prevent the souls from making their journeys. Also, not incidentally, they would impair the natural environment by depleting the fishery, removing some of the water for crop irrigation, and harming the plants, insects, and birds that live near the river.

Fired up by their concerns, several Lepcha in 2007 formed Affected Citizens of Teesta (ACT), a group that protested on the streets of the state capital, Gangtok, and received a lot of publicity as a result. The two leaders of the protests, Dawa Lepcha and Tenzing Gyatso, staged hunger strikes and sit-ins to dramatize the Lepcha position.

Dawa Lepcha tells the author that the state government at that time derided ACT as an ethnic and communal group, which it clearly was not. Today, he is a member of a political party called the Sikkim Krantikari Morcha (SKM), a group that opposes the work of Pawan Chamling, the Chief Minister of the state for 26 years.

The government likes to paint a happy picture of the three major ethnic groups in Sikkim—the Lepchas, the Bhutias, and the Nepalis—as living in a state of constant harmony, which is clearly not the case, he says. “There is every possibility of linguistic politics being practiced here in [the] future.”

While he is visiting Passingdang, Roshan visits Tenzing Gyatso, one of the ACT leaders. Nowadays he is working on his cardamom plantation far down the hill. He spends most of his time with his wife in their modest bamboo house and working in his fields. His comments strike the author as brimming with vitality. “We are going back to the land. The dams truly opened our eyes to the fact that Sikkim was selling off its hills and rivers,” he says.

Tenzing Gyatso with his wife
Tenzing Gyatso with his wife at their home in the Dzongu Reserve (Photo by Nikhil Roshan on the website Vikalp Sangam, Creative Commons license)

Gyatso takes Roshan on a walk through a grove of orange trees to see a new house he is building. He says, with obvious pride, “it is ironic that the model of sustainable tourism that the state now follows in a big way started right here in Dzongu, amongst us protestors.” He plans to use his new, much larger house, to host more tourists in a better homestay facility than he has now. He links the protest movement of eight years ago to the flourishing tourist business today.

“Some of my fellow protestors and I began running homestays when the anti-dam agitations began, both as a way to sustain ourselves and the movement. Besides it is a good way to raise awareness amongst visitors about our struggle. This land, after all, is our identity,” he explains.

Roshan looks out across the valley and agrees that the landscape is certainly worth preserving. He sees a “stunning diversity” in the landscape, the flora, and the fauna. He recognizes that the Lepcha have not lost their intimate connection with nature, so their need to preserve the natural environment is obvious.

The site of the Panan Dam
The site of the Panan Dam, where an abandoned workstation clings to a hillside (Photo by Nikhil Roshan on the website Vikalp Sangam, Creative Commons license)

Gyatso tells Roshan that during the night of August 16, 2007, after the state had already paid the first installment of compensation for their community, a flash flood occurred which washed away machinery left near the river by the construction company at the Panan Dam site—and a few engineers to boot. “Nature is with us,” Gyatso suggests.

Roshan explains that the Panan Dam site also happens to be in the buffer zone of the Kanchenjunga National Park. The government of Sikkim may now be moving with care about that proposed dam site since it intends to nominate the park for UNESCO World Heritage status. The moratorium also has helped quiet the agitation by the Lepcha people to preserve their heritage—at least while the government is not moving forward. The hiatus in construction activity may be helping the Lepcha develop their own paradigms for small-scale development projects, such as the successful homestay program for tourists.

Last week, Eric Michael Johnson described the way the Mbuti censured the abhorrent behavior of Cephu, a story told originally by Colin Turnbull in The Forest People, one of the classics of modern anthropology. Johnson’s piece, originally published in Slate in October 2012 and republished last week, retold the well-known Cephu story and cited it as part of a broader argument.

The Forest PeopleTurnbull told the story dramatically. Cephu was the head of four or five Mbuti families, a group that was not large enough to successfully form their own net-hunting band. He usually had a stand-offish attitude toward the two larger groups that formed the main band, refusing to make contributions to the Molimo festival or to take part in it, though he did participate in the daily net hunts—enough at least to get a share of the game for his group.

One day his behavior was particularly antagonistic toward everyone. During the hunt, he committed the crime of setting up his own net inside the circle of the other nets, intending to catch an animal first and not share it with the rest. The hunters all returned to camp in a fury since Cephu’s deception had been detected.

One of the men loudly summoned everyone together and, in turn, the people began openly insulting Cephu for his past behaviors; several people even refused to give him a place to sit. After he had been seated, others in turn denounced his behaviors, especially his egregious crime that day. It was pointed out that everyone had helped him when his own daughter had died, but he was not responding to the Molimo festival now, which resulted in the death of an elderly, respected lady.

Turnbull (1990) explains that for the Mbuti, the Molimo festival is a way of contacting the spirits through song. They sing their songs to symbolize their exclusion of the rest of the world except for the forest that surrounds their camp—the forest of sounds, movements and smells that form the essence of their lives and rituals.

Anyway, Cephu answered that the old lady who had died was not his mother, unwittingly announcing that he was therefore not related to the rest of the camp. He was then told that he could go off with his own group and be a chief like the Bantu villagers if he wanted. Cephu’s bluster was broken. He apologized profusely, gave lame excuses that no one believed, and indicated he would give everyone else the meat he had taken.

The others quickly swarmed through the huts in his area of the camp and took all the meat, some of which his family had quickly tried to hide. The band members continued their taunting into the evening. Cephu cried out that he and his family were hungry, but everyone taunted him. However, after dark, someone took a pot of food in his direction. Later, Cephu joined the main group around the fire singing the Molimo festival songs along with the rest of the men. The good spirits of the entire camp had been restored.

Atlas ShruggedThe same year that Turnbull was doing his anthropology field work in the Ituri Forest of the Congo, 1957, Ayn Rand published her dystopian novel Atlas Shrugged. The hero of her story, John Galt, condemned all collectivist societies since they don’t support individual rights. Galt stated, as quoted by Johnson, “By the grace of reality and the nature of life, man—every man—is an end in himself.” Galt continued, “He exists for his own sake, and the achievement of his own happiness is his highest moral purpose.”

Johnson argues that Rand’s reasoning is diametrically opposed to that of the Mbuti. Her Galt wants to live his life focused entirely on self-interest, which nature requires of him. Human nature is, in essence, based on rational thinking, individual achievement, and self-interest; and capitalism is its natural expression. Paul Ryan, now the Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, has cited Atlas Shrugged as a major influence on his worldview. Galt would view the approach of the Mbuti, in Johnson’s words, as “the disease of altruistic morality and economic redistribution.”

Johnson goes on to cite a work by anthropologist Christopher Boehm, who has been studying altruism in human societies for over 40 years. He discusses Boehm’s recent work in some detail, examining his study of the literature on 150 hunter-gatherer societies that he refers to as “Late Pleistocene Appropriate” peoples. He finds that they directly contradict the selfish ideal of Ayn Rand.

While none of those societies are perfect or completely without conflicts and occasional violence, in 100 percent of Boehn’s sample, altruism and generosity predominate toward both relatives and non-relatives alike. Cooperation and sharing are the most highly cited moral values. Boehm cites a variety of other factors involved, such as the roles of gossip, public opinion, spatial distancing, and expulsion in helping to preserve the moral rules in those 150 societies.

Johnson summarizes his comparison of the Mbuti with the modern capitalistic society. Ayn Rand might have felt a bond with Cephu, he suggests—they both valued themselves over the broader group and attempted to maximize their personal profits. But Turnbull made it clear that the Mbuti tried to minimize their disappointments with Cephu’s behavior by normally keeping their thoughts about him to themselves. It took his major crime that one day to bring matters to a head. But as the story concluded, group rules prevailed, and the uneasy balance between group needs and individual desires was maintained peacefully.

The Nubian communities along the Nile in northern Sudan, which were mostly spared from flooding by Lake Nasser in the 1960s, are now facing the threat of destruction by dams in their own valleys. Three huge new dams have been proposed for construction across the Nile, threatening tens of thousands of people who thrive on their riverside farming and fishing. The dams were proposed many years ago but the government of Sudan has been unable to build them due to a lack of financing. Until, that is, decisions were reached in early November.

The Second Cataract of the Nile, site of the proposed Dal Dam
The Second Cataract of the Nile, site of the proposed Dal Dam (Image by Antonio Béato, published in 1906; in the Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons license)

The Dal Dam, located at the Second Cataract of the Nile, would generate about 340 – 450 megawatts of power and would displace over 5,000 Nubians, while the Kajbar Dam, at the Third Cataract, would generate 360 megawatts of electricity and would displace around 10,000 Nubian people.

The dams became a serious threat on November 3 when Sudanese President Omar Al Bashir and his assistants flew to Riyadh to meet with Salman Bin Abdulaziz, the King of Saudi Arabia. Officials signed a deal, part of which provided Saudi funds for the construction of the two dams in the Nubian homeland, plus a third farther up the river nearer Khartoum.

The two dams, if built, would have the same effect on the Nubians along this stretch of the Nile as the Aswan High Dam had on the people of southern Egypt. They will be displaced from their villages and forced to live in resettlement communities far from the riverine environment that has fostered the peacefulness of their villages. Needless to say, they are reacting vociferously to the news.

In a statement issued on November 8, the Association of Nubians announced that its members completely reject the construction of the Dal and the Kajbar Dams. The group called for a massive campaign against their construction. It also asked the government of Saudi Arabia “not to get involved in the financing of this project which is benefiting the regime in Khartoum at the expense of the Nubian culture and territory.”

The government of Sudan has already indicated how it will react to protests against the dams. Peaceful protests in 2007 against the proposed Kajbar Dam resulted in security forces killing four people and injuring over 20. Activists protesting the dams in more recent years have been detained by security forces. Nubians, for their part, warn that a situation comparable to the rebellion in Sudan’s Darfur region could result if construction of the dams begins.

A protest against the Kajbar Dam in Sudan
A protest against the Kajbar Dam in Sudan (International Rivers photo, Creative Commons license)

An analysis published by the respected Jane’s Information Group concurs. It suggests that there will be an increase in the risks of civil unrest if the projects proceed. Initially, small groups of less than 500 Nubians will protest by blocking highways leading to the Dal and the Kajbar dam sites, with less chance of protests at the dam farther south.

But the leader of the Nubian Youth Committee against the Kajbar and Dal Dams, Rashed Sheikh Eldin Abash, was taken into custody on September 23 by the Nubian National Intelligence and Security Services (NISS). If he is prosecuted by the government, Jane’s warns, the situation could escalate into violent protests. The NISS would then likely escalate also and start using live ammunition in response.

The Nubians continued to seethe as the month wore on. The Popular Committee against the Kajbar Dam accused the government of wanting to exterminate the Nubian people. Residents of El Birgeeg, in the Northern State, warned that the region would turn into another Darfur if the government proceeded. Ezzeldin Idris Mohamed, the chair of that group, told the press that the Nubians would completely reject the construction of the two dams, even if they were handed the presidential palace as compensation.

In a meeting, members of the committee all vowed to remain on their lands even to the death, the chairman reported. The people in El Birgeeg described plans for the construction of the dams as a declaration of war on the Nubian people of Sudan’s northern region. Another group indicated that they are determined to protect their land and will resist the government, using all possible means.

International Rivers, a U.S.-based non-profit, non-governmental organization, which for years has advocated for the Nile to remain free of dams, joined the current chorus of protests with a report on November 19. It quoted a member of the Nubian Association as saying, “We will never allow any force on the earth to blur our identity and destroy our heritage and nation. Nubians will never play the role of victims, and will never sacrifice for the second time to repeat the tragedy of the Aswan Dam.” The Nubian communities have signed a petition opposing the two dams.

Of course, not all the comments from outside the government have opposed the dams. Alsir Sidahmed wrote, in a statement published last week, that environmental issues should also be part of the decision-making process. Decision makers need to strike a balance, he argued, between preserving the environment and improving the living conditions of the Sudanese people. But “since the ultimate goal is the well-being of the people, they should be consulted and engaged,” he suggested. It was not clear if he was thinking of the well-being of the Nubians or of the Sudanese people more broadly.

The Batek are highly dependent on the diverse life forms that surround them, especially the forest plants that they use for medicinal purposes, and as a result they have accumulated a vast knowledge of local natural resources. Amran Alias and Hood Salleh argued in a journal article published last December that the Orang Asli (original people) of Malaysia, particularly the Batek, represent an excellent source of information about indigenous knowledge on this topic.

The authors identified several issues relating to the study of Orang Asli uses of plants. The most obvious one was to question whether traditional knowledge of medicinal plants is still important among them. How are they actually being used? Furthermore, how would the possible benefits from the commercial sale of plant resources and plant knowledge be shared in the community?

Simply put, the goal of their research was to find information that would describe the ways an Orang Asli community—in this case the Batek of Kuala Koh, in Peninsular Malaysia—handles their traditional knowledge of medicinal plants. The authors carried out their investigation from April to June of 2014 by conducting in-depth interviews with leading individuals in the Batek community and by doing some participant observations.

The forest canopy of the Taman Negara National Park
The forest canopy of the Taman Negara National Park (Photo by Vladimir Yu. Arkhipov, Arkhivov in Wikimedia, Creative Commons license)

They decided to study the Batek of Kuala Koh because it is located right next to the world famous Taman Negara National Park. The people there have the advantage, compared to many other Orang Asli communities, of having fairly close access to a richly varied tropical forest.

Despite the fact that developments are taking place in the region surrounding Kuala Koh, the authors found that at least some members of the Batek community still retain a good knowledge of their traditional medicines. Furthermore, many believe that plant preparations are more effective than modern medicines in curing illnesses.

Batin Hamdan, the 56-year old headman of the community, told the authors that when someone becomes ill, family members normally seek the advice of others and try to find the recommended medicinal plants to cure the illness. However, if this approach fails to cure the sickness, they will call on Pak Abu, a 55-year old man who is the most skillful healer in the community. He learned his knowledge about using forest plants from his father, who learned from his ancestors before him. Pak Abu might prescribe the consumption of various parts of plants, and he might also perform appropriate rituals to assist in the cure.

Hamdan shared his own experiences with the authors. He explained that when his daughter had a stomach illness, he took her to a modern hospital for treatment—“but she died due to modern medicine (p.280).” Had he anticipated that tragedy, he would have cured her himself, he said. As a result, he no longer believes in using the modern health system.

The authors found that many people in Kuala Koh prefer to rely, for healing, on their traditional uses of plants rather than on modern medicines. Many Batek are still engaged in hunting and gathering in the forests, so they are frequently, if not constantly, exposed to the medicinal plants.

Taman Negara National Park entranceAllias and Salleh participated in one hunting and gathering expedition into the forest; within 500 meters of entering the woods, they noticed the presence along the trail of five different plants that members of the community had shown them earlier, plants which had properties useful for curing fevers, diarrhea, headaches, and cancers.

However, the authors did learn that the traditional knowledge of medicinal plants has been declining among the Batek. In some cases, the plants themselves have become scarce in the surrounding area—difficult to obtain despite the fact that the national park is completely protected.

The knowledge of medicinal uses of forest plants is typically transferred orally from elders to younger people. Although many Batek possess some familiarity with medicinal plants, more detailed knowledge tends to be retained by fewer people: experts such as Pak Abu. The knowledge is then transmitted to younger family members of the expert.

However, this transfer of the plant knowledge from older to younger people requires that the latter be already reasonably familiar with the forest. But that process has become a challenge for the Batek. In order for younger people to be familiar with some of the plants, they would have to walk considerable distances into Taman Negara. In earlier times, when the Orang Asli commonly lived surrounded by forests, plant resources were easily available close to their homes. In recent years, the forests have increasingly been cleared around their communities.

The authors argued that it is important for the Batek to identify who actually owns the medicinal knowledge of the forest plants. If monetary benefits were to become available to the community from the development of possible medicinal uses of plants—for instance, from the patenting of a new drug by an international pharmaceutical firm based on a local plant—who would actually own that knowledge and benefit from the sale? A good answer was not provided.

Alias and Salleh observed that the younger members of the Batek community are becoming less and less attached to the traditional hunting and gathering lifestyle. They are no longer much interested in going into the forest and searching for medicinal plants and foods. Yon, who is 24, told them that “many of them (the younger generation) prefer to just hang around and [do] nothing (p.282).”

Alias, Amran and Hood Salleh. 2014. “The Challenges of Managing Traditional Knowledge Related to Medicinal Plants among the Batek Community in Kuala Koh, Gua Musang, Kelantan, Malaysia.” Journal of Social and Development Sciences 5(4): 275-283. Available free of charge as a PDF on the Internet.