The Sabahan in Malaysia

My mother was born in Bingkor, a three-hour dirt drive away from Kota Kinabalu. It was my grandfather's penchant for all things Indonesian that caused him to name his daughter "Fazar", meaning "dawn". And indeed, it was the dawn of a new era. Grandfather, Datuk Hj Arif Salleh, was then in politics (he was a representative of Keningau), at a time when Sabah was surging with talks of joining Malaya, Sarawak and Singapore to form a new nation. A little more than a month after my mother's birth, on 16 September 1963, Malaysia came to be.

In my opinion, the biggest cultural shift in Sabah, post-Malaysia, happened in the 1970s. It was the era of Islamic Revivalism. There were Muslims in Sabah before - but it was during this time that the religion's spread catapulted. In 1969, Tun Mustapha bin Harun, Sabah's first UMNO chief, who was of Suluk-Bajau descent, formed the United Sabah Islamic Association, or, USIA, and employed teachers from the Peninsula as tools for dakwah. So organised was this movement that many unassuming villagers would say that they had converted to USIA, instead of Islam - and maybe there was truth to that.

By the 21st century, most Sabahans are either Muslim or Christian. North Borneo's animist and atheist ethnic beliefs, belonging to about 30 native ethnicities, were wiped out during my mother's generation. My generation witnessed the demise of all our Bobohizan (Kadazan-Dusun high priestesses) - and the secrets of our culture along with them.

We are also losing our language. My mother understands Kadazan-Dusun. I don't speak a word. As far as I know, most Muslim Kadazan-Dusun families like mine tend to have Malay-Muslim rituals and cuisine. Learning Arabic is a priority; learning our mother tongue is not. Even if we wanted to, there aren't enough resources.

Ticking the race box in forms is an atrocious summary of my cultural identity. It means omitting my Bugis paternal grandfather, who was from Selangor - and his father-in-law: a Filipino-Spanish man who came to Borneo as a Sarawak Ranger and married a Dusun woman from Sabah. Datuk Hj Arif is Sino-Dusun - as is his wife, who learned to speak Bahasa through her friends. My birth certificate, however, states I am Malay, and people still regard me as such.

People say we learn about history so as not to repeat the same mistakes. But when I learn about my history, I discover events and situations so lost to the past that they are unrepeatable. Panning through old photos of Borneo, I realise that it could have been me smoking fat curut, wearing textiles and beads with my tits hanging out; glistening with sweat after going boar-hunting with the men. To be honest, it makes me hate my post-modern life a little bit. Enough that I'd even trade an iPad for it.

I wonder how tribes of world-renowned badass warriors, headhunters, pirates and pagans could disappear within my grandparents' lifetime. Or was Borneo always meant to be something that legends are made of?

When we say, ad nauseum that Malaysia is comprised of "Malays, Chinese and Indians", I know that's not my Malaysia. My Malaysia isn't nasi lemak and nasi briyani. My Malaysia is living 30 minutes away from the islands by boat; seeing Mount Kinabalu from the city on a good day; and hoping to see a whale shark while stuck in traffic. My Malaysia involves protecting our wildlife because they precede our ancestors as Borneo natives. Sabah is jungle-trekking, mountain climbing and mud volcanoes; it's playing the guitar, drinking tapai and beer with friends; laughing at bad jokes and our own accents because we like ourselves so much.

That's the lighter side of it, at least. Sabah is still Malaysia's poorest state, after all.

I wouldn't say that I regret that we became part of Malaysia - but Malaysia Day is an occasion that East Malaysians seem to celebrate alone. In the Peninsula, I get asked about my race several times a week. It would not be so frustrating if people didn't look insulted when I say "Sino-Dusun", or ask when I arrived in Malaysia, after I tell them I'm from Sabah. Especially since - had it not been for my grandfather, among many other historic figures - we would still be Malaya. The next time someone asks me: "You Cina ke Melayu?" I will look at them sternly, palm raised to the sky, head high. I'd coolly say, "Neither. And don't 'Dan Lain-lain' me. I have culture. I have ethnicity, and I'll tell you all about it - once I figure it out."

Nadira Ilana is a filmmaker and writer. She was most recently an active member of Green SURF, a Sabahan advocacy group working against the planned coal plant in East Sabah.

Article taken from KLue Magazine