Decorative pic/Gambar hiasan
By Ratatouille (Majangkim Office)
KOTA KINABALU: Every May, the Kadazandusun community gathers at Hongkod Koisaan in Penampang to celebrate Pesta Kaamatan — the Harvest Festival.
It is a time of thanks for the rice harvest, of cultural pride, of sugandoi singing, of unity. The flags fly. The bobohizan bless the padi spirit. Leaders smile for the cameras.
But watch closely.
On stage, we perform the ritual — the symbolic cutting of the rice stalk, the offering to the spirit of the padi. The crowd applauds. The photographers click.
Yet something is missing.
Our Semangat Padi has lost its charm. It sits aside, just like the crowd watching.
The spirit is no longer in the harvest. It is a spectator at its own ceremony. The rice stalk is raised, but the soul of the padi — the living connection between farmer, land, and community — has been pushed to the margins.
Behind the postcard images lies a story rarely told: the story of hard work and sacrifice — and the slow erosion of everything that gave the harvest meaning.
The labour behind the harvest
Before the first tapai is poured, before the first gong is struck, there are months of backbreaking labour. The farmer rises before dawn.
He wades through mud, battles weeds, pests, and unpredictable weather. She carries heavy loads of padi across slippery bunds. The sun burns. The rain soaks. The body aches.
This is not romantic. It is survival.
And when the harvest is poor — because of drought, flood, or blight — the farmer does not complain on social media. He simply works harder. She tightens the belt. The family eats less so the seed rice for next season is saved.
Sacrifice: the hidden harvest
Sacrifice takes many forms. A father skips meals so his children can eat. A mother sells her chicken to buy fertiliser.
A young son leaves school to help in the fields. An elder, knees swollen from decades of bending over padi, still insists on joining the harvest because “the rice knows my hands.”
These are not stories for awards. They are the quiet, unpaid, uncelebrated acts that fill our rice bowls.
And yet, every Kaamatan, we thank the rice spirit. We thank the padi. But how often do we thank the people? How often do we truly see their worn hands, their tired eyes, their uncomplaining hearts?
Unity rooted in shared struggle
Real unity is not a speech. It is not a group photo of leaders holding hands. Real unity grows from the knowledge that we have all suffered, all sacrificed, all worked the land together — or that our parents and grandparents did.
This Kaamatan, let unity include:
The farmer who has no land of his own but works another’s field for a pittance.
The mother who harvests while pregnant, then returns to the field too soon.
The elderly who cannot retire because there is no pension for those who grow our food.
The young who leave the village for the city, not because they want to, but because farming cannot support them.
Two chains around the native farmer’s neck
If we want true unity — and if we want the Semangat Padi to rise from its chair and dance again — we must speak plainly about the two main problems crushing Sabah’s native farmers.
First, the rice monopoly. For decades,
Padiberas Nasional Berhad — Bernas — has held an effective monopoly over rice imports and local padi purchases. Our local farmers cannot sell their harvest to anyone except Bernas.
The price is set for them. They have no bargaining power. If Bernas offers a low price, the farmer must accept it or watch his padi rot.
Meanwhile, the same monopoly controls imported rice from Vietnam, Thailand, and Pakistan. Sabahans are told that local production is insufficient — yet the system actively discourages local farmers from thriving. Why cultivate more when you cannot freely sell your product?
Second, the land grab disguised as development. Native customary lands are being bought up — sometimes with consent, sometimes through loopholes — and converted into profitable housing estates.
The farmer who once grew rice now grows nothing. He becomes a security guard, a labourer, a migrant to the city. His children never learn to read the padi fields.
The result? Sabah, once a rice-producing state, now relies on imported rice from Bernas. We eat foreign grain while our own fields are paved over. We celebrate Kaamatan as if the harvest still belongs to us — but more and more, the harvest belongs to developers and monopolists.
A call to native leaders: responsibility, not rhetoric
Native leaders who claim to speak for the Kadazandusun, Murut, and Rungus must answer: What have you done to break the Bernas monopoly? What have you done to stop the conversion of native land into housing estates?
Too many sit on government boards, accept titles, and save their speeches for festival cameras — then vanish until next May. They praise the rice spirit but do nothing to free the farmer from an unfair market. They weep for lost culture but sign off on land deals that erase it.
A true native leader fights every day — in parliament, at the land office, in the boardrooms where monopolies are protected — to defend the farmer’s right to sell freely and the community’s right to keep its land.
A harvest worth celebrating
A festival that ignores these chains is just a party. A unity that hides monopolies and land grabs is a lie.
This Kaamatan, let us honour not just the harvest, but the harvester. Let us ask our leaders one question: What did you do — not said, not promised — but actually done, to break the monopoly and stop the land grab?
If the answer is silence, then we know what kind of unity they offer.
The true spirit of Kaamatan is not forgetting the suffering — it is demanding justice. It is looking at a bowl of imported rice and remembering the fields we lost.
And perhaps — just perhaps — if we speak honestly, if we act bravely, if our leaders finally lead — then next year, the Semangat Padi will stand up from its chair, walk back to the centre of the stage, and dance again.
That is my version of a Harvest — and it comes with a festival of abundance.
Kotobian Tadau Tagozao Do Kaamatan kumaa diozu savi savi. May your lands stay native, your markets stay open, and your leaders remember who they serve.
Too many sit on government boards, accept titles, and save their speeches for festival cameras — then vanish until next May. They praise the rice spirit but do nothing to free the farmer from an unfair market. They weep for lost culture but sign off on land deals that erase it.
A true native leader fights every day — in parliament, at the land office, and in the boardrooms where monopolies are protected — to defend the farmer’s right to sell freely and the community’s right to keep its land.
A harvest worth celebrating
A festival that ignores these chains is just a party. A unity that hides monopolies and land grabs is a lie.
This Kaamatan, let us honour not just the harvest but the harvester. Let us ask our leaders one question: What did you do — not say, not promise — but actually do to break the monopoly and stop the land grab?
If the answer is silence, then we know what kind of unity they offer.
The true spirit of Kaamatan is not forgetting the suffering — it is demanding justice. It is looking at a bowl of imported rice and remembering the fields we lost.
And perhaps – just perhaps – if we speak honestly, if we act bravely, if our leaders finally lead – then next year, the Semangat Padi will stand up from its chair, walk back to the centre of the stage, and dance again.
That is my version of a harvest — and it comes with a festival of abundance.
Kotobian Tadau Tagozao Do Kaamatan kumaa diozu savi savi. May your lands stay native, your markets stay open, and your leaders remember who they serve.
