The Forest That Feels: What the Dayak Katab Kebahan Teach Us About Connection and Conservation

In a world rushing toward development and efficiency, the Dayak Katab Kebahan community in West Kalimantan offers a different way, one that roots conservation not in policy, but in presence, tradition, and love for the land. When we speak of forests, we often use numbers: hectares lost, carbon stored, biodiversity measured. But in the quiet hamlet of Rasau Sebaju, the forest is not just a statistic, it is a living relative. A teacher and mirror. 

I had the chance to spend time with the Dayak Katab Kebahan people, an indigenous community that has lived alongside the forest for generations. What I found there was not just a model for forest protection, but a deeper reflection on what it means to relate, to belong, to care.

What I also found was something quietly radical: a community whose governance structure, ecological ethics, and way of life embody the very principles global climate summits often only talk about. The Katab Kebahan divide their forest into zones: core, traditional, planting, and utilization. The core zones, dense primary forests are sacred. No logging. No hunting. No fire. These are the lungs of the land, the source of clean water and biodiversity. Then there are utilization zones, where people farm, gather honey, pick wild fruits, or weave rattan always with care, always with rules. There are also planting zones, areas of ecological recovery where new growth is nurtured, and traditional zones, where cultural and spiritual activities take place including sacred tombs, ritual clearings, and gathering points.

Rules aren’t enforced by government rangers or courtrooms, but by adat, customary law passed down through oral traditions, symbols, and communal memory. For every tree felled, ten seedlings must be planted. If someone burns land recklessly, they must compensate for the damage and pay a fine equal to one gram of gold. These aren't arbitrary customs. They are living laws, grounded in restoration, not retribution.

Wisdom grows where roots run deep, customary law is passed down not only through words, but through daily forest life. ©Photo by Akmal Luthfi M

And the impact? It’s visible, measurable, and deeply felt. Scientific comparison between this indigenous forest and a nearby monoculture pine plantation reveals a stark contrast:

• The Katab Kebahan forest holds richer vegetation across all growth stages, trees, poles, saplings, and seedlings.

• Its diversity index (H’) and species richness are significantly higher.

• Wildlife, too, flourishes: over 9 protected species (including Helarctos malayanus, the sun bear, and Manis javanica, the pangolin) were recorded here, compared to only 4 in the pine plantation.

  
  

Biodiversity here is not accidental; it is actively cultivated through cultural practices and ecological consciousness. Many of the plants and animals are used for food, ritual, or medicine. For example, asam maram fruit is turned into traditional sweets, stingless bee honey is harvested sustainably, and fibers are woven into mats, baskets, or ceremonial attire. Nothing is wasted. Everything has meaning.

What moved me most was not the biodiversity data, but the atmosphere. People gathered to cook together, not as an event, but as a way of life. They didn’t rush. They didn’t multitask. They were simply present with one another, with us, and with the forest. Even without sharing a common language fluently, I felt seen. Welcomed. Known.

I remember one elder sitting beside me during a rest, offering nothing but a smile and a piece of roasted yam. We didn’t speak, but it felt like a conversation. These small moments, grounded in presence, are what modern society has largely lost.

Rattan crafts an example of how forest products are used sustainably, not just for economy, but for identity and cultural continuity. ©Photo by Bettyhuang27

West Kalimantan, like many forested provinces, faces mounting pressure from agribusiness. Palm oil plantations, industrial logging, and land concessions have spread rapidly since decentralisation reforms in the early 2000s. In response, communities like the Dayak Katab Kebahan have had to defend their forest not only through tradition, but increasingly through legal recognition. This is why documentation of customary zones and peraturan daerah hutan adat (regional forest laws) matter, because wisdom needs a shield. Aminatun et al. (2022) found that where local people are recognised as forest stewards, conservation outcomes are more durable. Illegal logging drops. Fires are controlled. Biodiversity thrives. And the forest becomes not just protected, but lived with.

The forest is governed by Pasak Sebaju Institution, a council with defined roles: custom division, public relations, empowerment, finance, and security. Its decision-making process is collective and dialogic grounded in values like hilang pokat, beganti pokat (resolve conflict through deliberation). These aren't empty phrases. They are daily lived practices that balance ecological, spiritual, and social life. Far from being outdated, the governance model is what modern environmental institutions could learn from: adaptive, relational, and accountable. When I left Melawi, I didn’t carry souvenirs. I carried something else: a memory of walking on soft soil beneath a towering canopy, the smell of forest leaves and smoke from a morning fire. Of being invited to eat, again and again until full meant not just fed, but held.

In that forest, I remembered what it means to relate.

Not to manage. Not to exploit.

But to listen. To tend. To be with. Maybe it’s how the forest might save us.