Borneo First Nation Under Siege: How Oligarchs Are Stripping Indigenous Lands in Silence

Oligarchs are stripping indigenous lands in silence. Doc. FB JWB.

By Apen Panlelugen

The newly erected signboard on a remote stretch of Borneo forestland appears, at first glance, like a routine administrative notice: an oil-palm plantation covering roughly 3,115.75 hectares is now under the authority of the Government of Indonesia, acting through the Task Force for Forest-Area Enforcement (PKH). The red block letters at the bottom deliver the order: 

LAHAN PERKEBUNAN SAWIT SELUAS ± 3115,75 HA INI
DALAM PENGUASAAN
PEMERINTAH REPUBLIK INDONESIA
C.Q. SATGAS PENERTIBAN KAWASAN HUTAN (PKH)

PERATURAN PRESIDEN REPUBLIK INDONESIA NO. 5 TH 2025
TENTANG PENERTIBAN KAWASAN HUTAN

DILARANG
MEMPERJUAL BELIKAN DAN MENGUASAI TANPA IZIN SATGAS PENERTIBAN KAWASAN HUTAN

“Prohibited: Buying, selling, or taking control of this land without authorization from the Task Force for Forest-Area Enforcement.”

Yet for local Dayak communities, this is not just signage. It is a signal that another step has been taken toward the quiet but systematic erasure of lands they have inhabited and cared for across generations. Beneath the bureaucratic wording lies a chain of political and corporate power that stretches far beyond the forest edge, touching the heart of national institutions and elite networks.

To outside observers, it may look like ordinary law enforcement. To local residents, it feels deeply unsettling: the beginning of dispossession.

Oligarchy at the Forest Frontier

Across Borneo, villagers describe a pattern that has become painfully familiar. Under the pretext of state authority, vast tracts of community land are declared under government control with little consultation or meaningful dialogue. Once legally designated, these areas often become vulnerable to transfer or leasing for corporate plantation expansion.

Residents increasingly see the hand of politically connected business groups, whose interests shape both policy and enforcement. The pattern does not feel accidental. Many say the process resembles a deliberate choreography that leaves ordinary people with no room to negotiate and no space to resist.

The involvement of state security agencies only intensifies public fear. Institutions responsible for national defense and citizen protection appear, at times, to be deployed against the very communities they are meant to safeguard. Armed officers stationed near contested land create an atmosphere where asking questions becomes risky and expressing disagreement can be met with intimidation.

For many Dayak families, the consequences are visceral. Land that once held ancestral graves, fruit orchards, ritual groves, and hunting paths suddenly becomes off-limits. Boundaries shift. A decree is issued. A signboard appears. Life changes forever.

Their relationship with the land becomes blurred and uncertain. Their rights, long recognized through custom, become subject to bureaucratic interpretation. The future feels increasingly fragile.

Land Loss, Cultural Loss, and Global Responsibility

The damage from land appropriation is not only economic. What fades alongside the forests is the cultural architecture that has defined Dayak identity for centuries. Traditional knowledge, customary law, sacred landscapes, and ecological stewardship all deteriorate when land is taken away. When the earth beneath their feet disappears, so does the memory of who they are.

This is not a local administrative matter. It is a slow-moving human crisis.

Yet the world rarely hears these stories. The machinery of oligarchy operates with quiet precision. Concessions and permits are signed in distant offices, while the people directly affected have limited access to journalists, legal aid, or international advocates. Their struggles seldom appear in global headlines.

That silence must end.

The international community bears indirect responsibility. The palm oil in household products used worldwide often originates from plantations established on contested land like this. The signboard captured here is more than a legal marker. It symbolizes a system that expands without scrutiny and without accountability.

Environmental organizations, human-rights observers, and global civil-society networks need to see what is happening for what it truly is. As forests vanish, so does biodiversity. As community rights collapse, cultural identities unravel. As intimidation spreads, democratic space narrows.

The Dayak have endured waves of upheaval: colonization, resource extraction, and large-scale development schemes. But many say today’s version feels sharper and more coordinated than anything they have faced before. The pressure is not only on their land. It is on their dignity, their survival, and their right to exist as a people.

Their message to the world is simple: Do not look away.

When the land is gone, everything built upon it is lost. No compensation can replace ancestral forests. No decree can restore a broken culture. No legal process can bring back a homeland once erased.

Borneo is facing one of the most rapid transformations in its history. Whether the world chooses to respond will determine whether justice, indigenous rights, and environmental stewardship still have a place in our global conscience.