Food security and sustainability have become urgent issues as humanity’s growing consumption pressures resources.
Agrotechnology now drives innovations to boost yields and resilience, particularly for staples like rice.
Yet, as agriculture modernises, what becomes of the heirloom varieties that once thrived behind homes or in marshy wetlands?
These crops are vanishing and for 85-year-old Aning binti Sinak, a Dusun elder from Kampong Lamunin in the Tutong District, the loss is resonant.
She longs for the diverse rice strains of her youth – grains celebrated for their unique growth habits, shapes, aromas and flavours.
“We grew lakatan piasau, lakatan harum, lakatan adan and tidung,” Aning shared, reminiscing about the more than ten varieties her family once cultivated.
“Each type had its own character. The lakatan harum was so fragrant, like pandan; you could smell it outside the house when it was cooking. I’ve searched for them for years, but I think they’re gone.”
Even as an octogenarian, Aning continued growing paddy until about five years ago. Her dedication to finding the traditional varieties she grew up with remained unwavering.
Yet, despite actively searching – even at local markets – she has found no trace of them.
For Aning, these varieties are more than just sustenance; they embody a profound cultural connection to the land.
“My mother used to grow other types of paddy, like jongkok and pusu. The pusu back then was smaller and more slender than the rounder variety you find now.”
She smiled as she recounted another variety with an unusual name: kura-kura (tortoise), so called because of its short height.
“It was so difficult to harvest because it was so low to the ground,” she said with a laugh.
Yet, every year, her mother ensured kura-kura was part of the planting cycle, always saving seeds for the next harvest.
“Despite its small size, the rice was delicious, with a texture that wasn’t too hard or too soft.”
ECHOES OF THE PAST
Aning’s sorrow extends beyond the loss of heirloom rice varieties to the fading of traditional farming practices she believes brought out the true essence of these grains.
“Every grain was earned not just in a day’s work but over months,” she reflected, describing the patience required depending on the variety.
“Some were ready for harvest in four months, while others took six, with a replanting phase in between.”
Her family’s fields, nestled in the hills and marshes near their home, were cultivated with care.
Buffaloes ploughed the land, and pestles were used to hull the grains by hand.
“The old methods gave rice a taste that’s hard to describe. Machine-milled rice just isn’t the same,” she shared, her words tinged with wistfulness.
For Aning, the preservation of heritage seeds is far more than a nostalgic longing.
It’s about protecting a cultural legacy woven into the land and labour of generations past.
Without these varieties and the traditions tied to them, a vital piece of history risks vanishing forever.
REVIVING HERITAGE AGRICULTURE
Aning’s thoughts on the rice of her youth reveal a broader concern: the dwindling connection between younger generations and traditional farming practices.
While the country has introduced various programmes to draw youth into agriculture, Aning believes there is value in learning the old ways, especially for those from rural areas of the Sultanate.
“Farming is part of our history and culture,” she said, urging more young people to reconnect with the land. “If you have the opportunity, try it. Even if it’s not for commercial purposes”.
As younger generations migrate to urban areas in search of better opportunities, the knowledge and skills required to cultivate heirloom crops risk disappearing.
Yet the 85-year-old remains hopeful, encouraging youths to see farming as a meaningful and productive endeavour, particularly in a world increasingly concerned with food security and sustainability.
“Farming can be a productive and meaningful path,” she said, urging recent graduates or those between jobs to consider agriculture.
By returning to the fields, Aning believes young people can play a crucial role in reviving heritage crops and safeguarding their cultural significance for future generations. Now, with Aning having stepped away from farming due to illness and age, she often reflects on the days she spent wrist-deep in soil and knee-deep in marshes, tending to her beloved paddies.
Her children had urged her to stop, pointing out that they no longer ate the varieties she painstakingly grew.
Yet, she would always respond with a heartfelt reminder: “You’ll miss this when I’m no longer able to do it. You’ll wish I could when I can’t anymore.”
In the world of agriculture, we’re often focused on finding the best-yielding varieties, always chasing efficiency.
Yet, Aning’s account invites us to pause and reconsider the value of traditional crops.
There’s wisdom and culture ingrained into these heirloom varieties, a legacy tied to the land and the people who cultivated them.
Perhaps in preserving these grains, we’re not just safeguarding a part of our agricultural history, but also the deeper connection to our roots. – Wardi Wasil
