FYARKIN

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In the past, the communities of Numfor Island met their daily needs using the skills passed down from their ancestors. They lived from the sea and the land. They caught fish and a wide variety of other marine life. On land, they gardened and harvested the abundance of the tropical forest.

Numfor  Island  sits  off  the  north  coast  of  Papua,  Indonesia,  in  Cenderawasih  Bay  around  96 kilometers west of the Island of Biak and around 110 kilometers east of the town of Manokwari. During  the  Second  World  War,  the  island  was  fiercely  fought  over  by  Japan  and  the  United States. The island itself covers just 335 square kilometers, but remains littered with the remnants of war: skeletons of buildings, and abandoned vehicles and artillery.

Numfor was a staging area for Japanese troops involved in the invasion of Biak. The Japanese military built three landing strips on the island: Asebori in the north, Kameri in the northwest and Namber on the west coast. The Allies captured Numfor in 1944.

Most  of  Numfor’s  people  originate  from  Biak.  The  historian  A.  B.  Lapian  describes  them  as ‘hardened sailors’. He notes that Biak islanders sailed as far as Maluku, Sulawesi and Java. It is said that, between 1400 and 1800, some sailed as far as the Straits of Malacca.

During the season of the North Wind between November and February, ocean waves reach a height of seven meters, which makes it impossible to sail. During these months, people work the land. They plant their gardens with root crops (cassava), pokem (finger millet), bananas and local varieties of mung bean as their main sources of carbohydrates. The season is marked by how the leaves of the coastal trees point inland.

Numfor has no sago trees such as can be found in coastal areas of mainland Papua. In Numfor, the word “sago” is used to describe food made from cassava and is called sagu kasbi.

As in other areas along the north coast of Papua, villages in the past were built on wooden piles over shallow water and were known as ‘floating villages’. “In the past we built houses from wood that could resist water, and which we tied together with rattan. All the materials that we used for flooring, walls and rooves were natural, harvested from the forest,” recalled 61-year-old Albert Rumbewas, who goes by the nickname Surti and is a resident of Saribi village, Orkeri District, Biak Numfor.

On Numfor, a floating village still exists in Bawei within the district of Poiru. It consists of only a few dozen such houses and represents the largest floating village still to be found on the island.

Season of change

“Some  time  in  the  middle  of  1980,  the  government  introduced  a  programme  called  ‘healthy housing’. We were asked to build houses on land”, said Surti.

Another programme called “Armed Forces Come to the Village” (“ABRI Masuk Desa”) supported the healthy housing initiative. The soldiers requested the involvement of community members to cut down trees in the forest, carry wood to the location of the new settlements, and build the houses. The villagers did all this by hand.

“At that time there were no bulldozers or trucks. We carried everything,” said Surti. The large lump on Surti’s left shoulder is a result of the work from that time, carrying timber from the forest. When the security forces gave an order, what ordinary person could have refused?

Traditional  thatched  roofs  were  replaced  with  zinc  roof  panels.  The  house  timbers  were constructed  using  iron  nails.  The  shape  and  interior  of  the  house  complied  with  what  the government considered ‘healthy’. The government provided the zinc panels and nails. “All adult males had to join in until the work was completed,” said Surti.

The government’s healthy housing programme has continued ever since that time. Government- version housing is now a priority development programme under the Village Fund (a form of block  grant  from  central  government).  The  housing  programme  has  over  time  changed settlement patterns from how they were in the past, as well as how people interact with each other and the ethics at play within the community.

“In the past a whole extended family lived in one house. Fathers-in-law, sons-in-law, younger aunts, children and grandchildren lived in separate rooms  within the same house,” said Surti. Now, each nuclear family – consisting of a husband, wife and children – has its own house as a result of the government housing programme. “Each nuclear family is encouraged to apply for a government-funded house,” he added.

Houses are now further apart. Each house has a yard and land to garden, just like villages in transmigration  settlement  areas.  This  has  changed  the  relationship  amongst  families  and relatives.

“In truth we feel embarrassed having a house built with government assistance,” said Helena Karma, 32 years old, from Saribi village. It was different in the time of her ancestors when people built their own houses with the help of their family and relatives. Helping each other was how people in the community showed their care for one another and strengthened kinship.

Anyone who was lent a hand would give food, drink, betelnut, tobacco or cigarettes in return but this was not considered a reward in the way it might be within the modern wage system. It was, in fact, a form of reciprocity.

“In the time of our ancestors, we were happy to share what we had, whether it was a lot or only a little,” recalled Helena. When people returned from fishing, or from their gardens or the forest, they  shared  whatever  they  had  caught,  harvested  or  collected  with  their  family  and  other relatives. In the past, asking your relatives to share a meal was considered normal.

The  tradition  of  sharing  within  and  between  families  really  changed  when  money  began  to circulate. “It hasn’t been long since we first learnt about having money,” said Elisabet Karma, 41 years old, a resident of Saribi village. When the government started delivering assistance in cash, people started to use the logic of money. Money became a new measure of things in peoples’ lives.

“Whenever people talk of disbursement of funds, all eyes are on the money – we have begun to judge  everything  in  terms  of  money,”  said  Elis.  Unless  money  is  involved,  people  are  more reluctant to share their labour. The village community has lost its collective energy and desire to partake in a shared life. “If there’s no money to be had, we prefer to mind our own business rather than bother ourselves with collective endeavours.”

This type of behaviour has become the norm since 2001 when the Papuan Special Autonomy legislation  was  introduced  and  the  government  began  its  cash  transfer  programmes.  NGO empowerment programmes also give cash to participating residents. The handing out of money is  justified  to  reimburse  transport  costs  or  to  compensate  people’s  energy  and  time  (“uang capek”). It is now commonplace for people to “only turn up if there is money.”

The introduction of money means that people now understand sharing in a different way. It is as if money has introduced the idea that some things are in short supply and difficult to get. Unlike a catch of fish or harvest from the garden, money is not something that is shared around. “The habit of giving to one another has been lost, replaced by feelings of jealousy and not caring,” said Elis.

Money has brought to the community a new reality of personal debt. Throughout the year, people get regular tranches of cash from the government and NGOs. One such programme is the Village Fund under which residents receive cash three times a year. At other times, they get money from other programmes.

Regular cash handouts give people the impression that they have their own income. It gives them the courage to buy things on credit from the village kiosk, such as rice, coffee, sugar and other basic household goods.

The loss of leadership and energy within the community

“When a leader understands how to manage aid money, it can support and strengthen kinship among  residents,”  said  68-years-old  Esau  Rumbrawer,  the  first  leader  of  Saribi  village.  Esau served as village leader from early 1990. Back then, residents would build roads by themselves using simple tools such as axes, shovels and hoes.

Stones were broken in the traditional way. They were heated and then drenched in cold water. Pieces  of  stone  were  transported  in  traditional  bags  made  from  natural  materials.  Everyone joined in the work, adults and even children, without expecting to be paid.

“We built the village hall with a government grant of 75,000 Rupiah (equivalent to about 65 USD at the time),” Esau recalled.

At that time, community members were happy to work together, the village head was transparent and delivered results for the community; people trusted his leadership. People were still willing to work for and contribute to the collective good.

“Now village leaders and their associates think only of their own welfare and their immediate family. People have started to mimic the behaviour of their leaders and it is  destroying kinship within our community,” said Esau bitterly.

With all these changes, people are becoming wary of government and NGO programmes. “It’s not that we don’t want to participate in government programmes, it’s just that every time there is a government  or  NGO  activity,  we  end  up  arguing  and  fighting  with  our  own  family  and neighbours”, said Elis.

Elis gave the example of the election for district leadership. A number of people in the community joined the campaign teams working for different candidates. Each campaign team worked to get the support of other community members but they did so in a way that divided everyone.

Sometimes the church gets involved in and aggravates these conflicts.  During the election of the village head, some church council members openly backed certain candidates. Then, they openly berated  their  congregation  members  who  chose  an  opposing  candidate.  This,  too,  triggered conflict between congregation members and in the wider community.

Disputes  continuously  break  out  between  different  groups  in  the  community  as  different programmes turn up from outside the village. A number of these are resolved but others hang in the  air  without  resolution,  like  a  bomb  that  can  explode  at  any  time.  Meanwhile,  different government and NGO programmes continue to arrive, one after the other, year after year.

An  example  is  the  National  Programme  for  Community  Empowerment  –  Strategic  Plan  for Village Development (PNPM-RESPEK) sometime during 2009. The programme centered on the newly developed area within Saribi village, built away from the coast. The programme focused on the provision of rain water collection tanks as well as electricity.

It was well known that the inland area of Saribi relies heavily on rainwater and installing these storage tanks met an important need. Elisabet Karma, one of the members of the Village Activity Implementation  Team  (TPKK)  who  worked  for  the  RESPEK  programme,  was  on  the  list  as  a recipient for electricity.

However, because her home already had its own independent source of power, Elis asked instead for a water storage tank. This was a reasonable request as the budget allocation for installing electricity was the same as it was for water tanks.

Elis’ house also already had a water tank. It belonged, however, to her in-laws who got it the previous year from the RESPEK programme. They had agreed to give it to Elis as she lived further away from a water source. If her application was accepted in this new round of programmes,

Elis intended to return the favour and install the new water tank at her in-laws’ house. Other programme  recipients  in  the  village,  however,  did  not  agree.  People  spread  rumours  that individuals were abusing power for personal gain from RESPEK.

Even though Elis withdrew her application, people continued to talk about it as if it had been approved.

In a situation where community members have lost trust and no longer look out for one another, initiatives that are meant to solve problems in the village can become sources of suspicion and anger.

“We have, in fact, become wary of change. The poor state of relations within our community has made it difficult to manage our lives. Change can lead to anyone being scapegoated, becoming a target for blame and anger in the community,” said Elis.

It is hard to use the experience of living together in the past as a basis for reconciliation when a dispute occurs in current times. These experiences and lessons no longer serve as guides for how to manage life together. In the past, people could live by sharing what they had, being sensitive to each other’s difficulties and respecting each other’s differences. But that was then.

The birth of Fyarkin

Fyarkin was born out of a desire to find solutions to the problems people faced. Fyarkin’s vision is to change the landscape of relations between community members, to rediscover the values that their ancestors had bequeathed them, and to adapt those values to the present day. The work “fyarkin” comes from the Biak language, and means “to travel in a good direction”.

Those who are active members of Fyarkin feel fortunate to have met Training for Transformation Papua (YP3SP). TFT Papua’s support to community organising helped give birth to Fyarkin.

It  was  a  process  by  which  Fyarkin’s  members  learnt  to  believe  in  themselves,  to  overcome repeated cycles of self-doubt, and through which they came to understand that learning comes with practice.

When  Fyarkin  was  first  formed,  its  members  agreed  not  to  create  a  hierarchy  within  their organisation. They committed to serve as “heads and feet” at the same time, so that everyone involved in the organisation would be both ‘a leader’ and at the same time ‘a member’. Learning from their experience in the village, they had come to believe that most problems stem from leaders and elites.

Fyarkin went on to form four working groups based on production of specific commodities. They formed a salt fish group, a fresh fish group, a coconut cooking oil group and a virgin coconut oil (VCO)  group.  Each  group  came  up  with  its  own  scheme  to  make  and  sell  their  products. Coordination between groups was the responsibility of all participating members.

By forming producer groups, Fyarkin’s members hoped to improve their bargaining position and to forge a common agreement on a floor price for their products.

The best source of money for community members are the regular passenger ferries which dock at Mansyoki Port in Saribi village. The ferries dock four times a week, for about two hours at a landing. The Thursday ferry brings the most buyers of fresh fish and other commodities from Numfor, including wholesalers. People from Numfor call it the “treasurer’s boat.”

It is common practice, however, for the ferry passengers to wait and buy just when  the boat is about to leave port, as a way to drive prices as low as possible. Local people are left with no option but to sell even if they do so at a loss. Their only other choice is to take their fish or other produce back home without having earned any money.

This  is  the  situation  that  inspired  Fyarkin  to  form  producer  groups.  They  imagined  that,  by turning fresh fish into salt fish, they would produce a commodity which lasts longer and would thus have more power to determine its selling price. They would also add value to a commodity such as turning coconuts into cooking oil and VCO.

In reality, however, an organisation where everyone is “a head and a foot” soon gets stuck in a rut. It  began  when  a  member  violated  one  of  the  working  group’s  agreements.   Members  of  the cooking oil group had agreed to contribute coconuts for processing into oil at a price of Rp1,000 (7 US cents) per fruit. The normal market price is Rp5,000 (32 US cents) per fruit.

They had agreed to the lower price so that the organisation could make enough of a margin to buy raw materials and invest in processing equipment.

Then, one day, a member offered his coconuts to the group at the full market price of Rp5,000. The group’s treasurer gave him what he asked for, believing that the agreed price had changed. The capital that the group had saved from its previous production cycles was used up paying for his coconuts.

One  can  imagine  the  commotion  that  broke  out  among  Fyarkin’s  members.  Other  members demanded that they, too, be paid at a rate of Rp5,000 per coconut. Also, Fyarkin no longer had any reserves to start production again. The dispute dragged on. No one took the initiative to gather the parties to the dispute and try to find a solution.

Having  been  told  the  story  by  a  number  of  other  members,  Elisabet  Karma  finally  brought everyone together and presented a way to solve the problem.

“Elis gathered all the members of Fyarkin so that we could all discuss the problem and find its root  cause,”  said  Helena.  The  process  showed  everyone  that,  by  talking  about  a  problem,  it becomes possible to find a solution.

In working together to identify the root cause of the problem, everyone became aware of the importance of leadership, in particular someone who can play the role of a facilitator in achieving the objectives of the organisation.

It took Fyarkin’s members two years to work out how important the role of a leader is to an organisation. “If all members are heads and tails at the same time, Fyarkin will never be able to function well,” said 58-year old Delila Womsiwor, a resident of Saribi village.

Over the course of Fyarkin’s journey, many members have left. Currently, a dozen or so remain active.  In  the  beginning,  many  people  had  enthusiastically  joined  because  they  thought  they would  get  money  or  handouts.  They  did  not.  Fyarkin  instead  offered  them  a  space  to  learn, dialogue and shape a collective dream.

“As  a  member  of  Fyarkin  I  have  learnt  some  important  things.  Families  in  this  village  have become more unified and can work together through this organisation,” said Edison Womsiwor,34 years old, and a resident of Saribi village.

Historically, all the families in Saribi have ties to one another, through descent or marriage.

For  the  women,  Fyarkin  is  a  space  where  they  have  the  freedom  to  express  their  views.  “My husband initially forbade me from joining. He believed that joining an organisation was a waste of time and that it was more useful to look after the home and children, like I had always done,” said Siane Wamaer, 29 years old.

Siane’s experience being a part of Fyarkin made her aware that she had views that needed to be expressed. Fyarkin trained her to have courage. “Before joining Fyarkin, I wasn’t aware that I had a right to express myself. I insisted to my husband that I had to join this organisation,” said Siane.

Production by each of Fyarkin’s groups is not yet geared to meeting market demand. Salt fish production is highly seasonal. It is mainly produced during the dry season when more fish can be caught. Production falls, however, when there is a lot of rain and catches are small.

Most of the coconut cooking oil that Fyarkin produces is for their families’ own consumption. It is sometimes sold to neighbours or other family members if their own household needs are met. Women  find  they  save  the  money  that  they  otherwise  would  have  spent  on  buying  factory- processed cooking oil. They also say that the food they cook with their own oil tastes better.

Once they stopped buying cooking oil, the women realised that they did not have to purchase all the things they need from the kiosk (the local store). “Normally we depend on the kiosk for all our household needs. But now, by making our own oil, we can reduce our trips to the kiosk,” said Helena.

“We are still testing out different methods so that cooking oil quality is consistent, and remains fresh and good for consumption,” said Delila Womsiwor.

In addition to their efforts to produce food and reduce cash expenditures, Fyarkin’s journey has made members more aware of changes in the environment, the fragility of community, and how people take the environment for granted, as well as other living beings. That understanding  has inspired Fyarkin’s members to change their ways so that life can be better, for the community and the environment.

A number of Fyarkin’s members have taken the initiative to replant mangrove trees along the shore, as well as coconut trees on their family’s land.

They planted these new coconut trees in the hope of having sufficient stock to produce coconut oil in  the  future.  In  addition,  they  have  started  a  community  garden  where  they  plant  cassava, vegetables and other food crops.

“We manage our gardens naturally just like our elders in the past by not using chemical fertilisers and pesticides,” said Elis.

Fyarkin members have agreed on a number of rules to protect nature and the environment. For example, they have agreed to ban the use of  bombs or chemical poisons when catching fish, and also  on  crowbarring  coral  and  other  activities  that  destroy  the  marine  ecosystem.  “We  must protect the sea because it is the plate which provides us our food,” emphasised Surti.

In their experience of building an organisation over the past four years, Fyarkin’s members still have moments of self-doubt and anxiety, and are still haunted by traumas of the past.

“Sometimes we feel that we are YP3SP’s most unproductive partner. Unlike PERJAMPAT [the Raja Ampat Homestay Association] which has brought its members prosperity,” said Elis.

.Elis is ever thankful that Fyarkin was able to find an organisational partner to learn with and a space to practice self-confidence. “Before meeting YP3SP, we felt ashamed because we felt we had nothing to share. This partnership has given us the courage to dream and to believe in ourselves,”said Elis.