Food Insecurity and Community Resilience Among Indonesia’s Indigenous Suku Anak Dalam

Abstract

In the forests of Jambi Province, Indonesia, the Indigenous Suku Anak Dalam have encountered rapid alterations to the environment upon which they previously depended. Their culinary traditions—and the knowledge that accompanies them—are placed at a greater risk as palm oil plantations expand and forest areas diminish. This research is based on extensive interviews with customary leaders (called Tumenggung, who guide communal life and cultural practices), elders, and women in five settlements in Merangin District. Rather than regarding participants as research subjects, we engaged with their narratives. The image that emerged was not merely one of food scarcity but also one of cultural loss. Instead of forest tubers, untamed fruits, or fish, families now depend on instant noodles or cassava. The rivers are no longer clean, and the trees that were once a source of both sustenance and medicine are largely extinct. Nevertheless, individuals devise strategies to adapt, including cultivating small crops in the vicinity of their dwellings, collecting what is left along the plantation’s perimeter, and distributing their meager possessions to their neighbors. This research demonstrates that food security for Indigenous peoples is not solely dependent on agriculture or nutrition. It is about the right to have a voice in one’s own land, dignity, and memory. Genuine solutions must transcend technical fixes and nutritional aid. The first step is to respect Indigenous voices, protect their territories, and support their methods of knowing and living before they are also lost.

1. Introduction

Indigenous peoples across the globe have long served as stewards of ecological knowledge and food systems intricately tied to the rhythms of their landscapes [1,2]. However, today, these communities face some of the most acute consequences of environmental degradation, climate variability, and land dispossession, often without institutional recognition or protection [2,3]. In the context of Southeast Asia, rapid deforestation and agribusiness expansion have intensified food insecurity and ecological precarity among forest-dwelling Indigenous groups [4]. Despite global calls to leave no one behind, mainstream sustainability policies often fail to reflect the realities of Indigenous communities whose lives are shaped by customary land tenure, oral traditions, and adaptive ecological knowledge [5,6].

In Indonesia, the case of the Suku Anak Dalam (SAD), or Orang Rimba, exemplifies how structural drivers such as land enclosure, monoculture expansion, and climate change converge to undermine Indigenous food systems [7,8]. Anthropological research characterizes the Indigenous SAD as a semi-nomadic, forest-dependent people whose lives are closely tied to adat (customary law), kinship-based foraging, and oral traditions that regulate relations with the forest [9,10]. Indigenous SAD in Jambi Province have been pushed to the edges of palm oil concessions, resettled in fragmented government-built shelters, and exposed to degrading environmental conditions [4]. These changes have not only eliminated traditional food sources such as forest tubers, wild game, and river fish, but have also severed intergenerational links that once sustained dietary knowledge, food-sharing customs, and forest medicine practices [9,10]. Although the Indigenous SAD have been officially recognized under Indonesia’s framework as an Indigenous community [11], their rights to land and resources remain precarious and inconsistently enforced [12,13]. State programs such as resettlement and social aid reflect a welfare approach that frames Indigenous SAD as vulnerable populations. Yet these measures overlook land dispossession and ecological decline, leaving a gap between formal recognition and actual protection [12]. At the same time, children’s preferences have shifted toward store-bought snacks, and households are increasingly reliant on instant foods with low nutritional value, marking a disconnection from their ecological heritage [14].

Large-scale oil palm plantations began expanding in Jambi during the late 1980s, with rapid acceleration in the 2000s following decentralization, replacing forests that once sustained Indigenous livelihoods [8,11]. Climate anomalies such as prolonged droughts, contaminated rivers, and shifting harvest cycles further destabilize traditional foodways [15]. In many cases, families can no longer forage or fish in traditional areas due to pollution from agrochemical runoff or legal restrictions on protected lands [16,17]. At the same time, development pressures and social stigmatization have deepened spatial exclusion: while some Indigenous groups now live in government-designated wooden shelters, others remain in makeshift plastic tents beneath oil palm trees, reflecting both institutional neglect and cultural resilience [18]. Although Bukit Duabelas National Park was established in part to safeguard Orang Rimba livelihoods, many Indigenous SAD groups were excluded from its boundaries due to administrative zoning and overlapping concession claims rather than voluntary choice. These layers of dispossession have reshaped how food is accessed, shared, and remembered within the community. Merangin District was selected for this study because Indigenous SAD here face intensified vulnerability due to their proximity to oil palm expansion and the lack of conservation protections found in nearby national parks such as Bukit Duabelas [10,19].

Although Indonesia has adopted a wide array of policies to address food security, land governance, and Indigenous recognition, implementation remains fragmented and often fails to reach marginalized forest communities [20,21,22]. As a result, the lived experience of food insecurity among Indigenous groups remains poorly documented in national datasets [23]. Most existing research has focused on deforestation, land rights, or poverty, without adequately capturing how Indigenous people themselves articulate hunger, adapt to ecological change, or maintain knowledge systems under pressure [24,25,26]. This epistemic gap undermines efforts to build inclusive, locally grounded responses to climate-related food insecurity. Accordingly, this study aimed to explore the structural factors contributing to food insecurity among the Indigenous SAD, document their adaptive strategies and resilience practices, and analyze the policy implications of these findings in advancing inclusive, culturally grounded, and sustainability-oriented interventions that support Indigenous food systems. The study contributed to sustainability by linking ecological disruption, food insecurity, and cultural resilience, and demonstrated how Indigenous knowledge provides pathways for more inclusive and just sustainability agendas.

2. Materials and Methods

2.1. Research Design

The research framework was shown in Figure 1. The study employed an Indigenous methodological approach that centers relational accountability, co-learning, and the validation of local ways of knowing [5,6]. Informed by Indigenous research ethics, this approach affirms lived experience and storytelling as epistemologically legitimate. Rather than treating Indigenous SAD members as research subjects, the study engages them as interlocutors and co-constructors of knowledge, thereby aligning with global efforts to decolonize sustainability science and restore data sovereignty to Indigenous peoples [27].

2.2. Study Area

This study was conducted in Merangin District, Jambi Province, Indonesia. Indonesia was selected as the research setting because of rapid agribusiness-driven deforestation and the vulnerability of its large Indigenous populations [4,20,21]. The Indigenous SAD in Merangin District were chosen as the focal case given their direct exposure to oil palm expansion and absence of conservation protections [9,10,19]. While context-specific, the case highlights ecological dispossession, shifting diets, and resilience rooted in Indigenous knowledge, and provides insights for other forest-dependent Indigenous groups in tropical regions [17].

To engage this marginalized group, the study adopted an operational strategy focused on trust-building and sustained collaboration, supported by local intermediaries who facilitated contextual access and interpretation [28]. Fieldwork took place between December 2023 and May 2024 across five Indigenous SAD settlement clusters located in plantation-dominated landscapes. Two clusters consisted of government-built wooden houses, each inhabited by approximately 25 to 30 households. Another cluster of around 15 households resided in self-built wooden houses on former customary forest land (Indigenous-managed forest territory under traditional law). The remaining two clusters, each comprising about 15 households, lived in plastic tents beneath oil palm trees, reflecting conditions of extreme precarity and displacement. Administratively, these clusters are situated in different villages, contributing to unequal access to public services, legal documentation, and external assistance.

Although these communities no longer reside within the officially designated Bukit Duabelas National Park, the closest settlement (Renah Pamenang Subdistrict, Merangin District) is located approximately 46 km from the park boundary, as measured using Google Maps. Historically, the current study area was part of the broader ancestral forest territory of the Indigenous SAD. The national park today represents only a fraction of this original landscape, which has been increasingly fragmented by state-led conservation policies and plantation development. Many residents in the study area maintain kinship ties and cultural continuity with Indigenous SAD groups who remain within the park’s interior, reinforcing a shared ecological identity rooted in customary land stewardship.

2.3. Interlocutors

This study engaged Indigenous interlocutors from the Indigenous SAD community. These interlocutors included four Tumenggung (customary leaders, who guide communal life and cultural practices), four Wakil (vice) Tumenggung, four Induk (wives of the Tumenggung), and four elders. As with many qualitative studies, this research was limited by a small sample size (16 interlocutors), which may not have captured the full diversity of Indigenous SAD experiences. The focus on customary leaders, elders, and women reflected perspectives of recognized knowledge holders, and gendered perspectives enhanced the trustworthiness of the findings.

Interlocutors’ selection was guided by a combination of purposive sampling and community nomination, facilitated by two trusted local intermediaries. Interlocutors were drawn from five distinct Indigenous SAD settlement clusters across different administrative villages to capture spatial, ecological, and social variation in food access and environmental challenges. In accordance with Indigenous SAD customary norms, indiv iduals holding these roles were recognized by the community as those authorized to speak on behalf of collective experiences. Establishing rapport required time, repeated visits, and culturally grounded listening, given the community’s prior experiences of extractive or transactional engagements by outsiders.

2.4. Data Collection

Prior to fieldwork, the researchers were informed of longstanding trust issues within the Indigenous SAD community. These concerns stemmed from repeated experiences with government agencies and external organizations who had made unfulfilled promises to improve livelihoods, leaving behind a legacy of disappointment. Such histories, coupled with negative stigma from surrounding populations, contributed to the Indigenous SAD’s hesitance to engage with outsiders. In response, the study adopted a trust-building approach grounded in relational accountability and cultural sensitivity. The researchers were accompanied by two trusted intermediaries, a local schoolteacher and an Indigenous rights advocate, who were respected by the community. These individuals helped explain the study’s purpose, facilitated introductions, provided informal translation when necessary, and ensured that all interactions aligned with local customs and expectations.

Dialogical interviews were conducted in Bahasa Indonesia with the Jambi Malay dialect. Most sessions took place in collective outdoor settings such as wooden porches (kaki lima pondok) or beneath makeshift tents under oil palm trees locations where interlocutors felt socially safe and culturally comfortable. Due to spatial constraints and sensitivities related to private living areas, the researchers did not enter homes and remained respectful of social boundaries throughout. Although interviews were directed toward individual interlocutors, they rarely occurred in isolation. Family members or neighbors were often present and sometimes assisted by reinforcing memories or clarifying responses. These communal dynamics enriched the depth and authenticity of the narratives without detracting from the primary voice of each speaker. Each interview lasted between one and two hours, often across multiple sessions, allowing for adaptation to informal conversational rhythms and ensuring ethical pacing.

Verbal and written informed consent were obtained prior to each interview. All research activities adhered to Indigenous SAD customary norms and were conducted with approval from Indonesia’s National Research and Innovation Agency, under approval number 065/LI.04/HK.01.00/2024.

2.5. Interview Guide

The guide was organized around four core thematic domains: depletion of traditional food sources; changes in dietary diversity and preferences; experiences of seasonal hunger and climatic uncertainty; and the loss of Indigenous food knowledge and cultural identity. These domains were derived inductively from preliminary field immersion and literature on Indigenous food systems. The initial prompts were drafted based on early observations and were iteratively refined throughout fieldwork in response to conversational flow and community feedback, allowing for contextual and cultural validation over time.

Each theme was explored using open-ended prompts cantered on present-day experiences. Although the questions focused on current conditions, interlocutors frequently responded by recalling how things used to be when the forest was still intact. These unsolicited reflections drawing comparisons between past abundance and current scarcity emerged naturally and repeatedly, revealing memory-based frameworks through which the Indigenous SAD interpret present-day food insecurity and cultural erosion. The guide was applied with flexibility and refined iteratively throughout fieldwork. It incorporated local terms and landscape markers that anchored questions in familiar spatial references, e.g., rimba (forest), anak sungai (tributary), pondok (hut), and kebun sawit (oil palm garden). Attention was paid to the structure and rhythm of oral testimony, including silences, metaphor, repetition, and moral expression. Culturally embedded phrases such as isi perut bae (“just to fill the belly”) were recognized as emotionally and epistemologically significant and helped guide interpretation during the analysis phase.

2.6. Translation and Transcription

All interviews were manually transcribed from audio recordings into the original dialect of the Indigenous SAD and subsequently translated into English through an interpretive and collaborative process. Rather than literal, word-for-word translation, the approach prioritized the retention of meaning, emotional tone, and cultural logic embedded in the oral testimonies. This process aligns with Indigenous research ethics that regard language as a form of knowledge transmission [5,6].

Repeated listening sessions were conducted to ensure accurate capture of tone and speaker intent. Translations were developed with the assistance of bilingual cultural facilitators, and where feasible, interlocutors were consulted during informal member-checking sessions to validate meaning and ensure fidelity to the original expressions. Common oral features such as repetition and hyperbole were interpreted as culturally valid ways of conveying emotional intensity and experiential truth, particularly in expressions of hardship [29]. For instance, the phrase Ndak ado, yo ndak makan was translated to reflect food insecurity and uncertainty, rather than literal starvation.

All transcripts and translations were documented using basic word-processing tools (Microsoft Word and Excel). Clarifying brackets were added sparingly to explain ecological, social, or cultural terms that may be unfamiliar to external audiences [30]. Although coding software was not used, manual documentation in Excel enabled systematic code tracking, theme development, and matrix construction consistent with established qualitative standards [31].

The lead researcher had prior experience working with the Indigenous SAD and possessed working knowledge of the dialect, which facilitated culturally grounded interpretation. Translation was not outsourced to external professionals but conducted collaboratively with trusted bilingual facilitators familiar with local idioms and socio-ecological contexts. This insider–outsider collaboration helped reduce the risk of linguistic or cultural misrepresentation and upheld the principles of participatory and decolonial research.

2.7. Data Analysis

Data immersion began through repeated listening to audio recordings and close re-reading of bilingual transcripts. Initial codes were developed openly, capturing key expressions related to ecological change, food access, cultural memory, and adaptive practices. Narrative features such as metaphor, symbolic phrasing, and emphasis were treated as central to meaning-making, rather than as rhetorical embellishments [32]. Emerging codes were clustered thematically through iterative review. Themes were refined through comparative analysis and structured into a data matrix, using Microsoft Excel for traceability and clarity. The summary (

Table 1. Indicators of food insecurity among the Indigenous SAD.

Indigenous SAD Food Insecurity Indicators	Remarks
Depletion of traditional food sources	Elder-A, Tumenggung-A, and Vice Tumenggung-A described the disappearance of sungkai shoots, forest tubers, and wildlife due to land conversion and forest degradation.
Declining dietary diversity	Elder-D and Induk-D noted the decline in wild herbs and fruits, while Vice Tumenggung-B emphasized reduced access to protein sources like wild boar and river fish.
Reduced access to clean water sources	Tumenggung-A and Elder-D detailed the contamination of rivers by plantation runoff, making water unsafe and reducing aquatic food sources.
Seasonal food shortages	Tumenggung-B and Induk-B shared accounts of prolonged droughts and rationing, highlighting reduced food availability and disrupted coping strategies.
Loss of Indigenous food knowledge	Elder-D and Vice Tumenggung-D expressed concern over youth detachment from forest knowledge and traditional foods, noting fading memory and intergenerational gaps.
Dependency on market-based food	Induk-B described reliance on store-bought food like canned fish, while Induk-C explained the shift from forest durian to packaged snacks.
Decline in food storage and preservation capacity	Induk-D noted food spoilage due to lack of storage, while Induk-B described saving boiling water and throwing away spoiled food despite hunger.
Shifts in child food preferences	Induk-D and Induk-C described how children now prefer noodles and colorful packaged snacks over traditional staples like cassava and forest fruits.
Increased foraging in degraded landscapes	Induk-B and Induk-C discussed gathering brondolan and leftover palm fruits near plantations under social pressure and nutritional desperation.
Loss of food-medicine plants	Elder-D and Elder-B highlighted how the disappearance of medicinal plants accompanied the decline in forest foods, harming both diet and health resilience.

) outlines the key food insecurity indicators, corresponding interlocutors, and interpretive remarks, offering an overview of how lived experiences were thematically organized. Analytical memos and peer reflections were used throughout the coding process to support reflexivity and interpretive depth. Oral feedback sessions were held with key interlocutors to verify the cultural coherence and relevance of emergent findings, in line with participatory research ethics. To preserve confidentiality while maintaining cultural context, personal names were anonymized using role-based identifiers (e.g., “Tumenggung-A”), with consent obtained for the use of quotations. This approach helped retain narrative integrity while protecting the identities of vulnerable interlocutors. The final thematic structure consisted of two overarching domains, (1) manifestations of food insecurity and (2) coping strategies and community resilience, each grounded in the everyday realities, linguistic expressions, and ecological observations of the Indigenous SAD.

3. Results

Table 1 synthesizes key indicators of food insecurity among the Indigenous SAD, grounded in testimonies from Indigenous SAD leaders (Tumenggung and Vice Tumenggung), elders, and women (Induk). The accompanying remarks illustrate how environmental degradation, dietary shifts, and structural exclusion intersect in daily life to undermine food security.

3.1. Manifestations of Food Insecurity

a. 

Depletion of traditional food sources

One of the key themes that emerged from interviews with the Indigenous SAD was the declining access to traditional food sources, which interlocutors attributed to forest degradation, land conversion, and biodiversity loss. Foods once central to cultural identity had become inaccessible entirely. Interlocutors consistently framed this not only as environmental loss, but as the erosion of their way of life. As Elder-A reflected:

“…, the forest was just nearby (dekat bae ‘adjacent to the huts’). We gathered sungkai shoots (‘young edible leaves’), kelumbuk roots (‘shade-tolerant forest tubers’), and sometimes a wild boar (nguko ‘forest-dwelling wild pig, key protein source’) would pass (lewat di depan ‘along foraging paths’)”

(Elder-A)

Elder-A’s statement referred to a time when foraging was easy and the landscape still offered diverse food sources. The nearby forest enabled direct and dignified access to food, but these conditions have since declined. Vice Tumenggung-A also described the displacement of wildlife:

“…, monkeys (bekuak ‘long-tailed macaques’) and civets (bilit ‘small forest carnivores’), were always nearby. Now they have entered the plantations (masuk kebun ‘displaced from the forest’) and remain behind pagar kawat berduri (‘fenced oil palm estates’)”

(Vice Tumenggung-A)

Vice Tumenggung-A described a fundamental spatial shift in which wildlife retreated into privatized lands, creating both physical and symbolic barriers to traditional hunting. Similarly, Tumenggung-A reflected on the degradation of aquatic ecosystems:

“…, we could fish in five places. The river (anak sungai ‘small forest tributaries’), all had fish. Now only one is left. Even that is unreliable. Sometimes the water smells bad (airnyo bau ‘sign of contamination’), the fish are small, and some are dead. The water is murky (keruh). Since the ‘kebun’ came in (‘oil palm expansion’), the water has turned black (air jadi hitam ‘polluted by runoff and sediment’). There is ‘racun dari atas’ (‘agrochemical toxins from upslope’)”

(Tumenggung-A)

This emphasized the harmful impact of plantation runoff on river health and fish availability, which contributed to declining dietary quality and increased food insecurity. Elder-B recalled the failure of traditional crops in newly exposed terrain:

“…, wild yams (gembili dan gadung) grew under big trees (bawah batang besar ‘under forest canopy’). The soil was cool (tanah dingin) and feet got wet (basah kaki). We dug near ‘jalan rimba’ (‘customary foraging trails’) and found them quickly. Now the land is hot (tanah panas) and open (terbuka). We planted near the hut (dekat pondok ‘wooden houses provided by the government, called rumah papan’), but they rotted (busuk). Nothing grew (dak bisa makan ‘loss of edible forest crops’)”

(Elder-B)

This indicated the breakdown of agroecological conditions that once supported traditional forest crops, as changes in temperature, shade, and humidity followed widespread deforestation. Women interlocutors provided detailed accounts of how food substitutions occurred in degraded environments. As Induk-A described,

“Sometimes there was food, sometimes none (kadang ado, kadang dak). If there was cassava, we ate. If not, we searched for ‘pucuk kayu’ (‘wild edible shoots’) that still looked fresh. We did not know if they had been sprayed (kena racun ‘contaminated by agrochemicals’). But with an empty belly (perut kosong), we still ate them”

(Induk-A)

As Induk-A explained, cassava often became the default staple when other forest foods were unavailable. Figure 2 illustrates this adaptive practice. Raw cassava roots (Figure 2a) are foraged or grown near huts, then scraped and boiled by women to make them edible (Figure 2b). This process, while labor-intensive and nutritionally limited, reflects the community’s everyday strategies for survival in degraded environments.

This revealed not only nutritional vulnerability but also the health risks embedded in current coping practices. Induk-B elaborated on this:

“We often ate ‘brondolan sawit’ (‘loose palm fruits fallen under the tree’). We picked them from under the trunk. They tasted bitter and were too fibrous, making them difficult to digest. But they filled the belly. The children could not chew them well, so we boiled them first to soften. It was not ‘makanan rimba’ (‘traditional forest food’), but there was nothing else”

(Induk-B)

As shown in Figure 3, fallen palm fruits (brondolan sawit) have become a fallback food source, especially when other forest-based options are no longer available.

The shift from nutritious forest foods to industrial byproducts such as brondolan sawit reflected a deep sense of dietary and cultural disempowerment. A similar sentiment was expressed by Elder-C:

“That banana stalk was not traditional forest food, but we ate it when hungry. We took the soft center (bagian tengah yang empuk) and boiled it for a long time. It filled the stomach (isi perut) but not in a satisfying way (kenyang yang senang ‘nutritionally insufficient’). Just enough to stop hunger (isi perut bae)”

(Elder-C)

Finally, Induk-C conveyed the ethical tension and desperation involved in foraging near plantation sites:

“We waited first for the people who carried the ‘egrek’ (‘long pole with sickle, used for harvesting palm fruit’). They cut down the palm fruit, and the loose ones fell to the ground. Then we went in to look for what was left underneath. We were not thieves, just trying to eat (isi perut bae ‘just to get by’)”

(Induk-C)

This reflected a form of moral resilience that endured despite increasing structural marginalization. The phrase isi perut bae (“just to fill the belly”) recurred as a refrain of survival without dignity, highlighting the stark contrast with the former autonomy of forest-based living.

b. 

Declining dietary diversity

The erosion of dietary diversity among the Indigenous SAD reflected not only ecological change but also the dismantling of long-standing ethnobotanical knowledge. As forest ecosystems were replaced by monoculture plantations and market-based livelihoods, daily food intake shifted from rich, foraged variety to monotonous staples such as cassava and bananas. Interlocutors viewed this decline as a loss of taste, medicinal value, and intergenerational knowledge, indicating both nutritional impoverishment and cultural displacement. As Elder-D shared,

“…, there were many kinds of leaves for cooking. What were they… ‘rimbang, sambilu, kemangi’ (‘wild edible herbs’). We picked them in the forest (rimba), near the ‘batang air’ (‘riparian forest zones’). They made the food taste good, and the body feel warm (badan pun anget ‘perceived as both flavorful and medicinal’). We followed our parents to find those leaves. They taught us, this one for soup, that one for stomach pain (orang tuo yang ngajarin ‘oral ethnobotanical knowledge’). But now, they are gone. The forest is gone. It has become oil palm plantation”

(Elder-D)

This testimony conveyed a vivid memory of taste, learning, and embodied knowledge. The shift from foraging in diverse riparian zones to residing near monocultures not only reduced nutritional access but also disrupted cultural transmission. The use of local terms such as batang air and badan pun anget emphasized the sensory and medicinal roles of food, much of which had become inaccessible. Induk-D expressed a similar sentiment, noting the generational rupture:

“…, ‘buah rimba’ (‘wild forest fruits’) were always around. Roots and leaves, we just picked them. Children now only knew cassava. They had never tasted forest fruits (mulut belum raso)”

(Induk-D)

This remark illuminated a deep simplification of diet and the loss of food knowledge. The phrase mulut belum raso (“mouths have not yet tasted”) captured how absence had become normalized among younger generations, detaching them from ancestral flavors and forest-based nourishment. Vice Tumenggung-B added the following:

“…, there was meat such as ‘nguko’ (‘wild boar, key protein source’) and ‘ruso’ (‘forest deer’). Even river fish became difficult to find. The water, ‘airnyo udah kotor’ (‘polluted or sedimented’), no longer supported aquatic life. The land lost its fertility, so we planted cassava. ‘Itu bae yang tumbuh’ (‘the only viable crop on degraded soil’)”

(Vice Tumenggung-B)

Dietary decline was closely linked to environmental degradation, including polluted rivers, infertile soils, and the loss of traditional protein sources. Cassava appeared not as a preference but as a last resort, expressed through the refrain itu bae yang tumbuh (“that’s all that grows”), highlighting ecological constraint. From a maternal perspective, Induk I-D described the shift from foraging to reliance on aid and limited agriculture:

“…, ‘tanam dekat pondok’ (‘subsistence plot’). Nothing came from the forest (rimba). Mostly cassava, bananas, and chilies. ‘Itu pun dulu dikasih orang dinas’ (‘previously provided by agricultural extension officers’). …, the forest gave us everything (rimba yang kasih semuo). We ate from the ‘batang’ (‘tree-based food sources’) and from the ‘batang air’ (‘river and stream systems’). There was no need to plant. We just picked what was there (tinggal ambek ‘forest-based foraging system dependent on intact ecosystems’)”

(Induk-D)

The contrast between rimba yang kasih semuo (“the forest gave us all”) and orang dinas (“state dependency”) highlighted the loss of autonomy and pride in Indigenous foodways. What was once an abundant and self-sustaining landscape has become a fragmented terrain dependent on external inputs. Induk-B conveyed the economic precarity shaping dietary habits:

“We ate food from outside (makan dari luar). If there was money, we bought rice or canned fish (ikan kaleng ‘commonly low-cost canned sardines’). Canned fish was just like that. We opened it and fed it to the children. If there was money, we bought. If not, we did not eat”

(Induk-B)

The shift to ikan kaleng (cheap canned sardines) indicated not only nutritional inadequacy but also a dependency on market-based food lacking cultural and health value, driven by income insecurity. Lastly, Induk-C described the behavioral and symbolic changes in children’s food preferences:

“Children asked for food from the ‘warung’ (‘informal roadside shop’). Candy, biscuits, and sweet drinks in plastic. When they went to the warung, they pointed at the colourful packages. …, we ate wild durian, durian rimba. We waited for it to fall and picked it early in the morning. There was also ‘pauh rimba’ (‘wild mango, Mangifera spp., sweet and tangy’). Now the children did not know those fruits. They never tasted them. What they liked now came in plastic. All colourful, but we did not know what was inside”

(Induk-C)

This quote revealed a critical transformation, shifting from durian rimba (forest heritage) to bungkus warna-warni (synthetic, unknown content). In this context, dietary decline was not only about health or access but also reflected an epistemological rupture, a detachment from identity, memory, and belonging.

c. 

Seasonal hunger and climatic uncertainty

The Indigenous SAD’s food system had long followed seasonal rhythms. However, in recent years, prolonged droughts, erratic weather patterns, and restricted mobility due to land privatization had made it increasingly difficult for the community to adapt to seasonal food shortages. Interlocutors spoke not only of environmental stress but also of the growing strain of intergenerational hunger and the erosion of customary coping skills. As Tumenggung-B recounted,

“There were no fish (ikan dak ado). Forest fruits were rarely seen (buah rimba jarang nampak), sometimes they ‘malu keluar’ (‘failed to fruit due to ecological disturbance’). Occasionally, wild tubers (umbi), were still found and dug up (emergency food sources). Forest leaves were boiled just to fill the stomach (direbus bae buat isi perut ‘basic hunger-satisfying meal, often eaten plain’). Often, it was only enough for our children (anak kito ‘a communal term expressing collective responsibility’). The elders (yang tuo) just waited. In the past, when rivers dried up, relocation would happen (pindah carik tempat lain). …, much of the land had been enclosed by ‘orang kebun’ (‘external plantation operators managing fenced oil palm estates’). There were fences and plantations. Customary forest paths (jalan rimba) could no longer be used. The space became narrow (tempat udah sempit) and freedom of movement diminished”

(Tumenggung-B)

This statement revealed the collapse of seasonal mobility, which was once a key adaptation strategy during periods of river drying and resource depletion. With forest paths now obstructed by plantation fencing and encroachment, families found themselves spatially confined in degraded landscapes with limited access to wild food alternatives. Induk-B shared a poignant account of how scarcity was managed within the household:

“…, we ate just a little (makan sikit sikit bae). Sometimes only twice a day. In the morning, maybe one banana was shared among three children (satu pisang, anak dibagi bertigo ‘idiomatic expression for scarcity’). At midday, we often did not cook (dak masak), so that in the evening we could eat cassava and boiled leaves, often bitter greens. Even the boiling water (air rebusan) was saved to drink due to limited access to safe water during the dry season. Everything was used (semua dipake) and nothing was wasted (dak boleh dibuang ‘value rooted in ecological necessity’)”

(Induk-B)

Induk-B’s reflection highlighted the intensification of food rationing and the communal ethic of prioritizing children, often at the cost of adult nourishment. Food was not only nutritionally limited but also emotionally charged, serving as a source of worry, sacrifice, and quiet endurance. The crisis was further exacerbated by the absence of adequate food storage infrastructure, as described by Induk-D:

“If there was rice or fish, it did not last long. The heat was strong (panas kuat), and food spoiled quickly. Even cassava could turn sour. We did not have cold storage (tempat dingin), and did not know how to preserve food like ‘orang dusun’ (‘village outsiders with refrigerators or proper kitchen tools’). Once it was cooked, it had to be eaten immediately. Sometimes, even shortly after cooking, it was already ‘basi’ (‘spoiled; unsafe due to sour smell or texture’). We had to throw it away (dibuek bae ‘reluctantly discarded out of fear of illness’), even though ‘anak kito’ (‘our children’) were still hungry. It felt like a waste, but we feared (peruk sakit ‘digestive illness’)”

(Induk-D)

This reflected how extreme temperatures and infrastructural marginalization interacted, undermining food safety, increasing household waste, and causing emotional distress as caregivers were forced to discard food despite visible hunger among their children. Elder-D also described how land degradation had reduced the availability of root crops, which had long been relied upon during seasonal lean periods:

“The land became very hard (tanah keras nian), cracked and dry, reflecting degraded former forest soil. Roots were no longer easy to find (akar akar dak gampang dicari)…., with a bit of digging, we could find ‘gembili, talas, or ubi rimba’ (‘wild forest tubers’). …, even when digging deep (gali dalam), sometimes there was nothing (kosong bae), or what we found was already rotten. Our backs ached (pinggang ngilu), our bodies were tired, (badan capek)”

(Elder-D)

This persistence reflected both physical exhaustion and resilience. Although traditional ecological knowledge endured, as seen in continued root-seeking practices, the environmental conditions no longer supported it effectively. What had once been a reliable fallback now required greater labor for diminishing returns.

d. 

Loss of food knowledge and cultural identity

Beyond physical impacts, the Indigenous SAD experienced a deeper loss—the fading of ancestral food knowledge and forest-rooted identity. As traditional foods disappeared, so did the memories and values once passed through generations. Interlocutors mourned not only biodiversity but also the forest’s former role in shaping learning and connection. As Elder-D reflected,

“Young ones now… they did not know the forest anymore. They saw trees only for shade. They did not know they were edible or medicinal. The bark from certain trees could treat fever, but they were unaware of that. Wild yams and their growing places were no longer understood. When I was young, I could stay alone in the forest for three nights and survive. Now, when just a little hungry, they asked for instant noodles. Just noodles, always noodles. They no longer searched for fruits or tubers. They no longer ate forest food. Everything they wanted came from the shop”

(Elder-D)

This reflection captured a generational disconnect. Where survival once required ecological knowledge, children had become reliant on processed, store-bought foods. The phrase mi terus (“always noodles”) signaled both dietary sameness and cultural detachment. Induk-D emphasized a similar loss in food preferences and values:

“My child now liked ‘mi bungkus’ (‘cheap dry noodles with artificial seasoning’). When there was a ‘belajor’ (‘non-formal education activity, usually held by NGOs or outside facilitators’), he came home asking for money to buy snacks. I gave him boiled cassava (singkong rebus, a traditional staple from forest gardens), and he just frowned. Back when I was hungry, I climbed trees to get honey. It was so sweet. Now, he preferred ‘bumbu pabrik’ (‘packaged seasonings from shops’)”

(Induk-D)

A mother’s voice revealed not only a dietary shift but also emotional detachment. Cassava, once respected, was now met with rejection. The craving for bumbu pabrik (factory-made flavorings) reflected growing reliance on external food systems disconnected from Indigenous taste and identity. Vice Tumenggung-D shared a young adult’s view on the disrupted transfer of ecological knowledge:

“…, not many could look for honey anymore. Traps (jerat) were no longer used. People used handmade guns (bedil buatan dewek ‘traditional hunting rifles built from scrap metal or pipe’). I had only joined two or three times. My grandfather used to go hunting every week. Back then, wild boars (babi hutan) walked close to the camp. Now, most of them were in the oil palm plantations. Bees were also hard to find. I wanted to learn, but the elders said, ‘what for? The places have changed, and the animals are not like they used to be’, Old knowledge still existed, but few continued it. Now the way of doing things was just different (caronyo udah lain bae ‘things have changed’).”

(Vice Tumenggung-D)

This testimony revealed how environmental change had weakened cultural transmission. Traditional food knowledge, though remembered, was now seen as impractical as ecological conditions disappeared. The phrase caronyo udah lain bae (“the way is just different now”) reflected a quiet resignation to landscape loss. Elder-B shared a culinary memory rich with meaning:

“…, when the moon was bright (bulan terang ‘a local way to describe a full moon night’), we cooked smoked squirrel (tupai asap ‘squirrel meat slowly smoked over fire’), mixed with forest leaves. The squirrel was burned slightly, smoked above the fire, then eaten with jungle vegetables. Now we just eat cassava every day, the same thing again and again. Forest leaves are hard to find, and we do not even have spices.”

(Elder-B)

The contrast between richly seasoned communal meals and today’s bland repetition underscored how dietary monotony reflected both ecological and cultural decline. Elder-A voiced sorrow over the fading of communal food gatherings:

“…, we no longer gather when we eat. Back then, when food was plenty, during fruit season (musim buah ‘when wild forest fruits like durian or petai were abundant’), everyone came together. We cooked as a group and ate around the fire. It was lively, with laughter and stories. Now people eat alone. Some just eat instant noodles, sitting quietly in their ‘pondok’ (simple forest shelter). The fire circle (lingkar api ‘the communal space for gathering’) rarely lights up anymore”

(Elder-A)

The lingkar api (fire circle) served not only as a dining space but also as a place for intergenerational storytelling and cultural learning. Its absence reflected the breakdown of social learning and collective identity. Elder-C warned of the cultural void left by the loss of traditional songs:

“Our songs talked about the forest and food. During weddings, births, or when entering the forest for rituals, we used to sing. The songs mentioned names of animals, leaves, and fruits. But now, many of those are gone. What will the children sing in the future? Without food, the songs become empty too.”

(Elder-C)

This illustrated how oral traditions, rich in references to flora, fauna, and subsistence, were closely tied to biodiversity. As species disappeared, so did the lyrical archives of cultural memory. Finally, Elder-D reiterated the intertwined loss of nourishment and healing:

“When the forest plants were gone, our medicine disappeared too. …, many of the things we ate also served to heal. There were roots for fever, leaves for stomach pain, and sap for wounds. All came from the forest. Now those roots were hard to find, and the leaves no longer appeared. Medicine from the market was expensive and did not work well for our bodies. So, it was not just our stomachs that felt empty—our bodies no longer knew how to recover.”

(Elder-D)

This final reflection encapsulated the full scope of dispossession—dietary, medicinal, and spiritual. The forest had once provided both food and healing, and its loss left both body and culture diminished.

3.2. Coping Strategies and Resilience Practices

Table 2. Coping strategies and resilience practices among the Indigenous SAD.

Indigenous SAD Resilience Strategies	Remarks
Depletion of traditional food sources	Elder-A, Tumenggung-A, and Vice Tumenggung-A described the disappearance of sungkai shoots, forest tubers, and wildlife due to land conversion and forest degradation.
Declining dietary diversity	Elder-D and Induk-D noted the decline of wild herbs and fruits, while Vice Tumenggung-B emphasized reduced access to protein sources like wild boar and river fish.
Foraging in degraded landscapes (e.g., plantation edges, riverbanks)	Tumenggung-C and Induk-D described foraging at plantation edges and degraded zones despite risks.
Hunting small fauna (e.g., monitor lizards, rodents)	Tumenggung-B: Mentioned cicak besar; Induk-D described catching rats and lizards as fallback protein.
Collecting brondolan sawit (fallen palm fruits)	Tumenggung-C, Induk-C, and Induk-D collected fallen palm fruits under social and nutritional pressure.
Boiling palm shoots or bitter greens as fallback food	Induk-D boiled palm shoots and bitter greens to make them edible despite discomfort.
Substituting forest herbs with cassava leaves	Induk-D, Vice Tumenggung-D replaced forest herbs with accessible cassava leaves for cooking.
Attempting to plant cassava near the hut (pondok)	Induk-D and Tumenggung-C planted cassava near pondok due to forest loss and lack of mobility.
Mixing cassava with leaves to increase volume	Induk-D mixed cassava with leaves to stretch food for children.
Experimenting with crops in degraded soil (e.g., chili, long beans, matoa)	Vice Tumenggung-D, Induk-D tried planting in degraded soil though some crops failed.
Using forest litter for compost (daun busuk)	Vice Tumenggung-D used daun busuk (rotting leaves) as organic fertilizer.
Shifting from mobility to sedentary gardens	Tumenggung-C shifted from seasonal mobility to fixed garden plots near shelters.
Digging by hand or hoe (cangkul) despite physical pain	Tumenggung-C reported physical exhaustion due to hand/hoe digging on hard soil.
Adapting daily routines to local proximity	Induk-D and Tumenggung-C adjusted routines to reduce distance from food sources.
Purchasing instant noodles or canned fish when cash is available	Induk-B and Induk-C purchased cheap food (ikan kaleng, noodles) when cash was available.
Rationing food among children	Induk-B practiced food rationing, prioritizing children during dry season.
Sharing limited food in communal meals	Elder-A and Induk-C continued communal sharing of meals even in scarcity.
Exchanging food items among neighbors (e.g., cassava for bananas)	Induk-D exchanged bananas and cassava with neighbors without calculation.
Cooking meals together (masak samo) despite scarcity	Elder-B, Elder-C, and Tumenggung-B shared cooking and eating to maintain collective spirit.
Protecting and monitoring the remaining viable stream (anak sungai)	Elder-A described community safeguarding remaining anak sungai.
Hand-catching fish in remaining waterways	Elder-A described community safeguarding remaining anak sungai.
Consuming boiled foods quickly to avoid spoilage	Induk-D noted need to eat boiled food quickly to avoid spoilage.
Planting food without formal land titles	Tumenggung-C planted despite lack of land rights and fear of eviction.
Staying quiet when confronted on contested land (silent coexistence)	Tumenggung-C reported passive resilience by remaining quiet when challenged.

outlines the adaptive strategies employed by the Indigenous SAD to cope with ongoing food insecurity. The remarks illustrate how community members combined traditional practices with new improvisations such as foraging in marginal zones, planting near huts, and sharing limited food in response to environmental degradation and structural precarity.

a. 

Adaptive foraging in degraded landscapes

As ecological change restricted access to forest interiors, the Suku Anak Dalam adapted by foraging in marginal zones such as plantation edges, degraded forest patches, and riverbanks. These areas reflected both resilience and socio-environmental loss. Interlocutors described daily struggles to find food amid enclosure, ecological decline, and increased vulnerability. As Tumenggung-C described,

“…, we no longer dare to go deep into the forest. There is barely any forest left. What remains is just the edge, near the palm oil and rubber plantations. We walk around searching for food there. Sometimes we collect fallen ‘brondolan’ (‘palm fruits’), sometimes we find rats or young leaves to cook. But often the plantation workers scold us and tell us to leave. What else could we do? Our land was taken, and the forest kept shrinking. If we did not go out and look, our children would go hungry.”

(Tumenggung-C)

This narrative illustrated how access to ancestral foraging grounds was limited by plantation expansion and fencing. Foraging became physically risky and socially contested, as land encroachment reduced both food sovereignty and personal safety. Tumenggung-C further described the physical strain and emotional fatigue of this shift:

“…, we walk a long time just to find what used to be near our hut (pondok). …, the forest was dense, the ground was soft, fruits, tubers, and wild pigs were all nearby. Now the old paths are gone—replaced by oil palm and rubber trees, all in straight lines, no shade. We must walk far, crossing other people’s plantations. Sometimes they yell at us, sometimes we’re afraid. Our bodies get tired, feet hurt, and sometimes we come back with nothing. The elders can’t join anymore—they don’t have the strength”

(Tumenggung-C)

The quote evoked a sense of disorientation and loss, as traditional paths and the knowledge tied to them disappeared. Long journeys for minimal returns excluded elders and hindered intergenerational participation. Induk-D shared the gendered dimensions of coping:

“…, we look for palm shoots, fallen fruits, and small animals near the rubber plantation. Every morning, I walk with the women. We check the ground, pick up fallen fruit, dig for tubers, sometimes set small traps. If we catch a big lizard or a rat, we’re thankful. This food isn’t like before—sometimes it makes the stomach queasy, but we eat it anyway. If not, the kids in the hut cry from hunger. We don’t eat because it’s tasty, but just to keep the belly from being empty”

(Induk-D)

Her statement highlighted maternal responsibility and the moral burden of feeding children under precarious conditions. Food was consumed not for taste or nutrition but to guard against hunger, reflecting subsistence without dignity. Tumenggung-C also noted the decline of wild animals:

“…, even monkeys are hard to catch. They don’t come near anymore. …, near the old hut, monkeys and wild boars used to pass by. We set traps and the next day, we’d have food. Now, many trees are cut down, and machines make noise day and night. The animals get scared and run deep into the remaining forest, near the big plantations. We can’t go there—sometimes there are workers, sometimes we’re afraid. Finding meat now is really hard. Sometimes we go a whole week without catching anything”

(Tumenggung-C)

The decline in fauna from noise, logging, and fencing reflected broader ecological disruption. The absence of game signified both food scarcity and a spiritual break in hunting traditions. Induk-D added a reflection on botanical substitutions:

“Sometimes we eat palm shoots (umbut sawit ‘young core of oil palm stem’). It doesn’t taste good, but it fills the stomach. Before, there were many forest fruits—some sweet, some filling. But after the trees were cut, they’re all gone. Now there’s only young palm stems. We peel off the skin, take the white part inside, boil it a long time until it softens. The taste is bland, no energy either, but we can eat it. Doesn’t cost money. When things get tough, that’s all we find”

(Induk-D)

The replacement of wild forest fruits with industrial byproducts like palm shoots reflected a significant dietary decline. Though technically edible, these fallback foods lacked both nutrition and cultural meaning. Elder-C offered a botanical–historical perspective:

“…, forest tubers like ‘gadung and gembili’ (‘wild yams’) grew along the shaded jungle paths. Now the land is bare and hot—they don’t grow anymore. …, after rain, we’d walk, see the soft soil, and dig right away. The tubers were big and easy to find. Now the ground is hard, the sun is hot, the plants won’t grow. We tried planting them near the hut (pondok), but many withered, some rotted. The place isn’t shaded anymore—it’s like the land has forgotten those tubers.”

(Elder-C)

His statement conveyed a sense of ecological amnesia, as altered microclimates no longer supported ancestral crops. The loss of forest shade and soil moisture caused traditional tubers to fail, reducing both food sources and ecological heritage. Lastly, Elder-A described the last vestiges of fishing practice:

“…, we could catch fish in five places. Now there is only one small stream (anak sungai kecil) left with fish. Back then, every bend in the river had fish. We taught our children to catch them by hand or using wooden spears (tombak kayu). However, the upstream water later became dirty because of oil and chemicals (racun dari kebun besar ‘from large plantations’). The fish disappeared, and many rivers became lifeless. Only one small flow remained, and we guarded it closely. Even that water became smaller, smelled strange, and the fish were tiny and thin. In the past, we could catch a bucketful, but now even one or two fish felt lucky.”

(Elder-A)

This passage captured aquatic degradation as a cumulative threat. Declining water quality, toxicity, and shrinking habitat led to smaller and less frequent catches. Children’s learning of foraging and fishing became confined to a single, diminishing stream.

b. 

Transition to small-scale agriculture

As forest ecosystems shrank and foraging became less viable, the Suku Anak Dalam began shifting to small-scale cultivation near their dwellings. This change reflected both ecological adaptation and a transformation in their relationship with land, mobility, and labor. Moving away from a semi-nomadic life tied to forest cycles, many experimented with sedentary food production despite insecure land tenure and harsh conditions. Tumenggung-C reflected on this shift:

“…, we followed the forest. We walked, set traps, dug for roots. We moved around and followed the seasons. Not anymore. Now we plant here. We dig with our hands, sometimes with a hoe (cangkul ‘a manual digging tool’). Our backs hurt. We did not use to work like this. But we have no choice. The forest is far, and it is shrinking.”

(Tumenggung-C)

His account highlighted how forest degradation limited traditional mobility, pushing the community toward unfamiliar and labor-intensive practices. Agricultural work, once minimal, became physically taxing, especially for elders. The same interlocutor shared another dimension of vulnerability:

“We used to hunt wild boar. Now there are none. It is quiet. Coming home with nothing is normal now. So now we plant near the hut. But this land is not really ours. Sometimes people tell us to move. We have no papers, no proof. We just stay quiet.”

(Tumenggung-C)

Tumenggung-C linked food insecurity to land insecurity. Planting near the pondok (hut) offered a practical response to declining game but exposed the risks of farming without formal tenure. This shift was not a planned transition, but a strategy driven by necessity. Induk-D illustrated this adaptation through staple crops:

“I planted cassava behind the pondok (hut). Cassava grew easily. It did not require rich soil or much water. The harvest was not large, but it was always available. I could check it every day because it was nearby. Sometimes there was no fish and no edible leaves near the plantation edge. So, we just ate cassava.”

(Induk-D)

Cassava served as a resilient, low-input crop suited to degraded land. It provided a fallback when wild foods or protein were unavailable, though Induk-D noted its nutritional limits:

“We also planted matoa, avocado, and durian, but those took a long time. The trees had not produced fruit, only leaves. Sometimes the cassava was small and dry. The soil was hard, and rain did not come. But we still boiled it. We mixed it with leaves to make it appear like more. The children ate it as long as their stomachs were not empty.”

(Induk-D)

Although efforts were made to cultivate long-term food sources, delayed yields and erratic rainfall reduced their effectiveness. The focus shifted to quantity over quality, with food serving more as filler than nourishment. Vice Tumenggung-D shared ongoing experimentation and learning:

“This year we planted more. Cassava again, because the soil here was not good. But cassava could survive. We had tried chili and long beans before, but they died. It was too hot, and the soil was clay. Still, we continued planting, just tried. We watered it and used rotting leaves for compost (daun busuk ‘forest litter turned into organic fertilizer’). We were learning a little.”

(Vice Tumenggung-D)

The quote reflected the Indigenous SAD’s resilience and adaptability. Despite repeated failures and poor conditions, they engaged in trial and error, blending forest knowledge with new cultivation methods.

c. 

Strengthening social cohesion through communal practices

Amid shrinking forests and rising food insecurity, the Suku Anak Dalam sustained collective resilience grounded in reciprocity and care. Environmental degradation reduced access to forest food but did not erode communal values. Across testimonies, interlocutors recalled inherited norms of food sharing that persisted despite scarcity. Elder-A reflected on how these ethics endured ecological decline:

“The old ones taught that if there was food, it should not be eaten alone (dak dimakan sendiri bae). If someone was hungry, it should be shared (ya dikasi). …, the forest provided plenty. Even now, with much of it gone, the values remain the same. If there was one, it was shared with two; ‘if there were two, it was shared with all’ (‘expression of communal ethic’)”

(Elder-A)

This showed how collective food ethics endured beyond their forest-based origins. The values persisted despite declining material abundance. Induk-C described how children, especially those vulnerable to hunger, were prioritized in communal meals:

“If there was food, others were called to join, especially children (anak kecik). If there were bananas, they were shared. Sometimes it was just boiled cassava. The meal was taken together (makan rame-rame bae ‘collective eating even in scarcity’)”

(Induk-C)

Her account showed that shared meals offered both nourishment and social support for the most vulnerable. Exchange and interdependence also emerged through informal bartering. As Induk-D shared,

“If one had bananas and a neighbour had cassava, they traded (tukar ‘exchange without measurement’). No weighing, no counting. If something was needed, it was given. Help was returned when needed. The elders used to say:’makanan dak boleh disimpan simpan’ (‘food should not be hoarded if others were hungry, an oral norm of reciprocity’)”

(Induk-D)

This testimony affirmed an unwritten ethic of fairness and generosity that supported social resilience during hardship. Elder-C described similar practices:

“…, one had rice, another had cassava, so they cooked together (masak samo). Meals were shared (makan samo samo). Children sat on mats, elders nearby. There was not much talking. After eating, everyone returned to their pondok.”

(Elder-C)

These material and moral exchanges bound the community, reinforcing mutual obligation and shared dignity. When rare game was caught, sharing symbolized a brief return of abundance. Tumenggung-B recalled the following:

“When a wild boar (babi) was caught, it was butchered and shared. Sometimes a ‘cicak besar’ (‘monitor lizard, not a house gecko’) was also caught. It was cooked together and eaten together. If cassava was available, it was added to the dish. Even a small portion was eaten in a group.”

(Tumenggung-B)

This affirmed food’s role in maintaining social bonds despite limited nutritional value. During climatic shocks like the recent dry season, reciprocity deepened. As Vice Tumenggung-D observed,

“ …, during the last long dry season (panas panjang kemarin), rain did not fall. The ground was hard, cassava was small (singkong kecik). But some was still available. Exchange continued (tukar tukar)—cassava, rice, or sometimes noodles from outsiders. Meals were prepared and eaten together. It was not much, but it was not eaten alone”

(Vice Tumenggung-D)

This showed how scarcity strengthened social obligation within the community. Elder-D closed with a striking image of cohesion amid spatial dispersal:

“…, houses are scattered near the oil palm plantation zones (kebun sawit). Rimba ‘udah tipis’ (‘the forest has thinned’). But if someone gently says ‘makan samo kito dulu’ (‘let’s eat together’), the others come. Even if it is just cassava, it is eaten communally. It may not be filling, but it keeps the stomach from being empty and the person from being alone.”

(Elder-D)

This statement showed that fractured landscapes did not break kinship or solidarity. The phrase makan samo kito dulu (an invitation to eat) served as both a cultural idiom and a quiet resistance to hunger-driven isolation.

Overall, the narratives illustrated how food insecurity among the Indigenous SAD was experienced as both ecological dispossession and cultural erosion. Similar patterns had been noted in studies of Indigenous food systems facing deforestation and land-use change in Southeast Asia and beyond [4,8,17,25]. However, the Indigenous SAD narratives contributed a distinctive perspective by showing how hunger was articulated through memory, moral expression, and culturally embedded terms such as “isi perut bae.” This positioned the findings not only within local experience but also within broader debates on Indigenous food systems and sustainability.

3.3. Causal Pathways to Food Insecurity and Responses

Figure 4 illustrates a multi-layered causal pathway linking structural drivers to food insecurity indicators, policy response strategies, and expected outcomes among Indonesia’s Indigenous SAD. Deforestation and monoculture expansion, along with land enclosure and climate-related land dispossession, directly contribute to the depletion of traditional food sources, seasonal hunger, and the erosion of food–medicine plant availability. Simultaneously, socio-cultural disruptions such as intergenerational ruptures, and shifts toward processed food further undermine dietary diversity and Indigenous food knowledge.

These vulnerabilities manifest through tangible indicators, including reduced access to clean water, loss of preservation capacity, market dependency, and degraded child nutrition. In response, the diagram maps context-sensitive policy options ranging from recognition of Indigenous land rights and agrochemical regulation to support for intergenerational food education and community-based food markets. When effectively implemented, these interventions are expected to restore traditional food systems, stabilize seasonal availability, improve water and nutrient access, and revitalize Indigenous food knowledge.

4. Discussion

4.1. Environmental Drivers of Food Insecurity

This study provides a context-specific analysis of how the Indigenous SAD confronts the multidimensional challenges of food insecurity amidst environmental transformation and socio-political marginalization. Drawing from Indigenous narratives, the findings reveal that food insecurity among the Indigenous SAD cannot be reduced to a question of availability or access alone. Rather it is intimately tied to histories of land dispossession, ecological degradation, and cultural dislocation processes that have eroded both material resources and symbolic frameworks that once sustained food sovereignty.

The loss of traditional food sources such as forest tubers, wild game, and river fish is not merely a nutritional concern but a cultural rupture. These foods, once integral to seasonal knowledge, foraging routines, and community rituals, have either become inaccessible due to land enclosures or disappeared entirely due to ecological decline. Such patterns mirror broader trends among forest-dependent Indigenous groups who are pushed to the peripheries of monocultural economies without effective safeguards [4,25]. Comparable processes have been observed among Indigenous peoples in the Amazon [25], Central Africa, and the Arctic [15], where climate change and agribusiness expansion similarly destabilize food systems and cultural continuity. For the Indigenous SAD, particularly women and elders, this rupture is accompanied by feelings of loss, helplessness, and grief, as ancestral knowledge becomes increasingly difficult to transmit. These emotional and cultural consequences echo earlier ethnographic findings on the Indigenous SAD [33] and resonate with critiques of how large-scale land conversions fragment Indigenous foodways.

4.2. Cultural Knowledge and Social Resilience

Despite the challenges, the Indigenous SAD demonstrate a range of coping mechanisms that are adaptive, if not always sustainable. Practices such as foraging along plantation boundaries, initiating small-scale food cultivation, and maintaining communal food-sharing reflect a continuity of ecological intelligence and mutual aid. However, these strategies are carried out under increasingly precarious conditions. Cultivating cassava or raising free-range chickens, for instance, requires not only physical labor but social negotiation in spaces where Indigenous SAD land claims remain insecure. These findings align with studies highlighting the ambivalence of adaptive strategies in contexts where state and corporate policies do not recognize Indigenous tenure rights [10,21]. Similar ambivalent strategies are reported among Indigenous farmers in the Amazon [25] and forest communities in Central Africa, where small-scale farming and foraging coexist with deep structural insecurity.

One of the most significant patterns observed in this study is the persistence of communal food ethics. The phrase “dak dimakan sendiri bae” (not eaten alone) recurs in multiple narratives, underscoring how solidarity operates as both a moral principle and a mechanism of survival. Food is rarely consumed in isolation. Instead, it circulates through kinship networks, especially during times of scarcity. This collective orientation anchored in relational values, offers insight into what scholars’ term relational resilience [17], wherein well-being is co-produced through acts of sharing rather than individual accumulation. As access to land and food becomes increasingly limited, the Indigenous SAD community appears to be investing even more in these social ties as a source of stability.

4.3. Policy and Governance Challenges

At the policy level, these findings signal the inadequacy of mainstream food security frameworks that privilege technical inputs and production metrics while sidelining Indigenous knowledge systems. The Indigenous SAD’s current predicament illustrates the limitations of programs that focus narrowly on caloric sufficiency or market access, often overlooking the importance of cultural familiarity, ecological ethics, and autonomy in shaping food practices. Although Indonesia has made formal commitments to Indigenous rights, including the recognition of masyarakat adat through national law, implementation remains inconsistent [12,22]. The disjuncture between legal recognition and lived realities has left many Indigenous SAD families in limbo, settled in government shelters yet lacking secure tenure or living under plastic tents in plantation zones without access to basic services.

Many existing analyses portray Indigenous groups primarily as passive recipients of aid or as outliers in national datasets. In contrast, this study foregrounds the perspectives of those most directly impacted, highlighting how food scarcity is experienced not only as physical deprivation, but as a severance from forests, ancestral practices, and participatory spaces of governance. These insights align with recent scholarly efforts to decolonize sustainability research by centering Indigenous narratives and epistemologies [5,6]. The testimonies gathered here suggest that food insecurity, in this context, is not merely a technical issue but a deeply relational and historical story, one shaped by memory, ecology, and longstanding injustices.

Framed through these lived experiences, the findings offer a close look at how the Indigenous SAD community is reconfiguring everyday practices and relationships in response to ecological degradation and land insecurity. Moving beyond a narrow view of food insecurity as a logistical or agricultural concern, these narratives point to broader dynamics of marginalization including contested sovereignty, the dispossession of customary lands, and the erosion of knowledge systems passed down through generations [14,33]. Adaptation, in this light, is not a solitary act of resilience but a collective process grounded in care and intergenerational continuity. The Indigenous SAD case thus invites a rethinking of dominant development frameworks that prioritize efficiency over relationality and tradition. In methodological terms, the research affirms the relevance of dialogical, participatory approaches that position Indigenous voices not as supplementary, but as central sources of knowledge and insight [5,6]. By documenting these perspectives on their own terms, this study contributes to more inclusive and culturally responsive sustainability discourses.

Moreover, the findings illustrate that food security for communities like the Indigenous SAD cannot be disentangled from their social, cultural, and ecological worlds. Practices such as foraging in degraded landscapes, maintaining reciprocal food-sharing norms, and experimenting with small-scale farming are not only responses to material scarcity but also expressions of ecological memory and cultural persistence [14,33]. However, these strategies operate under increasing strain. Without legal recognition of territorial rights, supportive policy environments, and institutional respect for Indigenous knowledge systems, such resilience risks becoming unsustainable [21,22]. Sustainable development frameworks must therefore move beyond technocratic targets and integrate justice-oriented approaches that recognize the rights, voices, and situated knowledge of forest-based Indigenous peoples [5,6,17].

5. Conclusions

This study reveals how food insecurity among the Indigenous SAD is deeply connected to ecological degradation, insecure land tenure, and the erosion of customary food knowledge. Grounded in community narratives, the findings challenge conventional food security framings and highlight relational forms of resilience communal sharing, ecological memory, and intergenerational care. These insights underscore the need to rethink food security not merely in terms of calories or aid, but through the lenses of justice, cultural continuity, and territorial rights. Without secure land tenure, inclusive decision-making, and institutional support for Indigenous knowledge systems, even the most adaptive responses may not be sustainable in the long term. Therefore, policy actors and development institutions must recognize Indigenous communities not as passive recipients but as knowledge holders and legitimate actors in shaping sustainable futures. In practical terms, this requires strengthening land rights enforcement, integrating Indigenous ecological knowledge into food security programs, and ensuring that interventions are designed through participatory, community-led processes.