Vescovo Motociclista, Jejak Misi Mgr. Giulio Mencuccini, CP di Kalimantan Barat

Tembawang (etno agroforestry) Dayak

As I walked beneath the green canopy in Pasir Mayang Village, deep in the heart of Ketapang Regency, West Kalimantan, back in 2012, I felt truly present in this world. Under the towering durian trees, their roots gripping the earth like ancient sentinels, I stood as if at a portal of time, fused with my very being.

This was no ordinary forest—it was a tembawang, an etno-agroforestry system, the sacred forest garden of the Dayak people. The Iban Dayak call it temawai, the Benuaq Dayak name it lembo, the Nganju Dayak know it as kaleka, and the Jalai Dayak in Ketapang refer to it as dahas, among other names. Here, every tree tells a story: of ancestors who cleared the land, of rituals giving thanks for the first fallen fruit, of children who will inherit honey and tales. But tembawang is not just about trees, sustenance, or carbon storage. It is a mirror reflecting how humans can live—or fail to live—in harmony with the world. Why does tembawang, a local Dayak practice, feel so vital to us all? How can a forest garden teach us about the meaning of existence in an era of palm oil plantations and climate crises?

As a historian, anthropologist, and observer of humanity, I see tembawang as more than a system of agroforestry. It is a window into the grand question: What does it mean to be human in a world we are destroying? Drawing inspiration from philosopher Martin Heidegger, who spoke of “Being” as an authentic relationship with the world, I invite you to explore tembawang through an interdisciplinary lens—history, anthropology, science, and psychology. With analogies, reflections, and a touch of uncertainty, let us uncover why tembawang is not merely a Dayak legacy but a lesson for all of humanity.

From Fields to Forests: The History of Tembawang

Picture a Dayak family, centuries ago, clearing a plot by a river. They planted rice, then moved on when the soil grew weary. But they didn’t abandon the land. They sowed fruit trees—durian, jackfruit, tengkawang—and let the forest reclaim the space, creating tembawang: a man-made forest that mimics the wild. It was their savings in the earth, not just for themselves but for all living beings in this cosmos. Birds, squirrels, deer, mouse deer, mushrooms, even predators, all found food and shelter in these Dayak forest gardens. And the oxygen filling your lungs today? It might just owe a debt to tembawang.

The history of tembawang is a tale of ingenious adaptation. Anthropology teaches us that indigenous communities are often more innovative than we assume. Tembawang is not just a quaint village farming story; it is a fusion of human needs, the universe, and reverence for nature.

Yet history casts shadows. Since the 1960s, palm oil plantations have swept across Kalimantan, eroding tembawang. Environmental science data reveals that tengkawang vegetation, a tree yielding valuable fat, has declined by 50–70% in some areas. Behind these numbers lie stories of loss: ancestral graves bulldozed, rituals fading, local languages vanishing. But the Dayak are not silent. Through customary land mapping, like in Segumon Village in 2016, they resist. Why do they persist? Is tembawang merely about local economics, or is there something deeper—something that speaks to how we all live our lives?

Tembawang as a Way of “Being in the World”

Heidegger once said that humans don’t just live in the world; we “are in the world” (Being-in-the-world). We are connected to our surroundings through actions, care, and meaning. But modernity, with its tractors and spreadsheets, often severs this bond, turning forests into mere “resources.” Tembawang offers a different vision. Imagine a Dayak farmer walking through a tembawang, checking a durian tree while praying to ancestral spirits. This is not just work; it is a ritual, a dance between human and nature.

From an anthropological perspective, tembawang is a sacred space. The belian tree is considered holy, the tengkawang tree revered, and ancestral graves within the garden are believed to maintain cosmic balance. In the Kaharingan belief system, nature is alive with spirits—Penompa, the creator deity, or the souls of trees. Tembawang becomes a meeting place for humans and spirits, much like a Gothic cathedral for medieval Europeans. But this is not about dogma; it is about engagement. Do we, in our concrete cities, still have our own tembawang—a space that makes us feel connected to something greater?

The Psychology of Care: Why Do the Dayak Protect Tembawang?

Heidegger called care (Sorge) the core of human existence. We care about the world—our children, our homes, our future. In tembawang, care is evident. Customary rules forbid selling tembawang or felling trees recklessly. Its fruits and honey are shared for communal needs, not personal profit. This is not romanticism; it is a survival strategy backed by science. Ethnobotanical studies show that tembawang preserves rare plants like gaharu and durian burung, along with medicinal herbs, safeguarding biodiversity amid deforestation threats.

But this care is also psychological. Picture a Dayak mother teaching her child the names of trees in a tembawang, recounting the ancestors who planted them. This fosters identity, a sense of belonging. Modern psychology calls this “place attachment”—an emotional bond with a place. In a world of migration and alienation, tembawang reminds us: humans need roots, not just physically but spiritually and emotionally. What happens when we lose our tembawang—the place that gives us meaning?

Time in Tembawang: Transcending the Self

One of Heidegger’s most stirring ideas is about time. We are not creatures bound to the “now”; we are tied to the past and future. Tembawang is a vivid illustration. A tengkawang tree planted by a grandfather may only bear fruit when his grandchild is grown. Planting a tree is an act of faith in the future, an acknowledgment that our lives are finite (Being-toward-death, Heidegger called it). This contrasts with our instant-gratification culture, where palm oil plantations promise quick profits but leave the soil barren.

Historically, tembawang also holds memory. Oral stories about tembawang in Gunung Bawang, for instance, trace the migrations of the Dayak Kanayatn. Each tree is a living archive, storing knowledge like an old book in a library, rarely read but brimming with wisdom. But time also brings threats. When tembawang is cleared for palm oil, we lose not just trees but stories, identity, and the future. What does it mean to live in a world where your memories are erased or your hopes vanish?

Challenging the Dominant Narrative

We live in an era that worships efficiency and profit. The dominant narrative—from billboards to corporate reports—insists that nature must be “economically productive.” Tembawang defies this. It may not generate billions of dollars, but it feeds communities and all creatures connected to it, preserves rare species, produces the finest oxygen, and serves as a “terminal” linking humans to ancestral memories. To scientists, tembawang is a “carbon sink” combating climate change. In anthropological terms, it is a hub of social identity. Psychologically, it is a source of emotional well-being. Why do we so readily sacrifice such a system for extractive industries like monoculture palm oil plantations?

But I don’t wish to oversimplify. Tembawang is not a magic bullet. The Dayak face economic pressures, and some reluctantly turn to palm oil to survive. This isn’t about “tradition good, modernity bad.” It’s about choices—about seeing through the clearer lens of the Dayak perspective. Do we want a world with only one way of living, one that prioritizes profit, or a world that embraces diverse ways of “being in the world”?

A Mirror for Humanity

Tembawang, ultimately, is a mirror. It asks us: How do we want to live? Science tells us that agroforestry systems like tembawang could be a global model for sustainability, preserving biodiversity without sacrificing food security. Anthropology shows that indigenous cultures often hold answers we overlook. Psychology reminds us that humans crave meaning, not just efficiency. And history? It whispers: what we destroy today may be irretrievable tomorrow.

I don’t have definitive answers. Perhaps tembawang is just one of many ways humans try to make sense of the world. But as I stood beneath that durian tree, listening to stories of ancestors and futures, I felt something missing from our fast-paced lives. Perhaps we all need our own tembawang—a place, a practice, a way to feel connected to the world. What is your tembawang? And if you haven’t found it, will you seek it?