Morning mist hangs low over the Sungai Utik forest in West Kalimantan. In the distance, the hornbill’s echo rolls across the canopy, while sunlight filters through the branches, glinting off the long, tangled roots that dangle from a massive strangler fig.
For the Iban people who live here, such a tree is not just a part of the forest — it is a home. Not for humans, but for something older, unseen, and deeply respected — a spirit.
“Never cut down a tree like this carelessly,” warns Apai Bujang, an elder of the Iban community, his voice steady but reverent. “Someone lives inside. If we disturb it, misfortune follows.”
That warning is more than folklore. It is a belief system that has quietly protected their forest for generations.
Spirits That Protect the Forest
When conservation researchers arrived in Sungai Utik, they were struck by what they found. Over 90 percent of the Iban community believes that spirits inhabit large strangler figs.
Because of this, the villagers refuse to cut these trees, even when they grow in the middle of their fields. Field surveys revealed that the number of strangler figs in Iban farmlands is nearly the same — or even slightly higher — than in primary forests.
That finding named for the report, Strangler Figs and Their Spirits: How Indigenous Beliefs and Practices Influence an Iban Landscape, West Kalimantan, Indonesia, carries a powerful message, a simple belief can yield an extraordinary ecological effect. Without formal regulations or ranger patrols, the forest remains protected through faith and respect.
Among the vines and moss-covered trunks, the strangler fig stands as a living symbol of connection — between humans, nature, and the unseen.
Testing for the Tree’s Spirit
Not every fig tree is believed to have a spirit. According to Iban tradition, only the old and large ones are considered “alive” in the spiritual sense. To find out whether a tree houses a spirit, villagers perform a quiet ritual, one that has been passed down for generations.
They wedge a small axe or machete into one of the tree’s aerial roots. If the tool falls off by itself within a few days, the tree is deemed inhabited — a sign that the spirit rejects disturbance. Such trees are left untouched, often becoming sacred markers in the landscape.
If the axe remains in place, the tree is considered “empty” and may be used for practical needs — but not before a humble offering of betel leaves, tobacco, or a handful of rice is made to seek permission from the forest spirits.
In a world that prizes logic and science, such rituals may sound mystical. But in the forests of Sungai Utik, they represent communication — not just between humans and spirits, but between humans and nature.
The Ecological Heart of the Forest
Scientists describe strangler figs (Ficus spp.) as keystone species — organisms that hold ecosystems together. Their fruit feeds birds, bats, and primates year-round; their roots stabilize slopes and riverbanks; their branches shelter countless plants and insects.
But long before ecology had such terms, the Iban already understood this truth. They did not learn it from textbooks, but from observation and coexistence.
“They see that birds and monkeys always come to the fig trees,” said Ditro Wibisono Wardi Parikesit, the researcher from Wageningen University. “They know these trees bring life — that’s why they believe spirits dwell within them.”
In Sungai Utik, science and spirituality converge. They speak different languages, but they share one message: the forest must be protected.
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The Forest That Endures
Sungai Utik is one of Indonesia’s most remarkable examples of successful community-led forest conservation. From above, their territory appears as a vast green island amid the cleared landscapes of palm oil and mining concessions.
The Iban people collectively manage over 9,000 hectares of customary forest, using a traditional shifting cultivation system that allows land to regenerate naturally. When a field is left fallow, fig trees are often the first to reclaim it, marking the slow return of the forest.
“If there are no fig trees, the birds won’t come,” said a young mother while pointing toward a towering tree at the edge of her field. “If there are no birds, the forest falls silent. And if the forest is silent, our lives become silent too.”
For the Iban, protecting the forest is not an environmental choice — it is a moral and spiritual duty, a balance between people, spirits, and the earth.
When Belief Becomes Conservation
To outsiders, the idea of a spirit tree may sound like superstition. Yet studies show that these beliefs have tangible conservation outcomes.
By refusing to cut down large “inhabited” trees, the Iban create natural sanctuaries for biodiversity. Birds, bats, and fruit-eating mammals rely on figs for sustenance, ensuring the survival of countless other species in the ecosystem.
“Local belief systems can be more effective than state conservation policies,” Ditro noted. “They don’t need legal enforcement because respect for nature is already embedded in the culture.”
Through belief, the Iban have preserved both their forest and their identity — something increasingly rare in a rapidly modernizing world.
Lessons from the Spirit Trees
Under the vast canopy of a strangler fig, where its roots embrace other trees like ancient hands, the forest hums with quiet life — insects, birds, and the soft sigh of wind passing through leaves. Here, the boundary between the human world and the spirit world feels thin.
For the Iban, to honor the tree is to honor life itself. They do not see nature as a resource to exploit but as an elder to respect and live alongside.
Perhaps that is the wisdom the modern world has forgotten, that protecting the planet doesn’t always require power or policy — sometimes, it only requires reverence.
“If we take care of them,” says Apai Bujang, eyes fixed on the massive trunk before him, “they will take care of us.”
And as long as that belief endures, the roots of the strangler fig will continue to hold the soil, the forest, and the fragile balance between humanity and the world it depends on. (Sulung Prasetyo)
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