A story about land, food sovereignty, and the efforts of Indigenous youth to revive the community economy in Minahasa.

The Village as a Source of Life

“My parents are farmers. I am a farmer too. I’m proud of it.”

The sentence came lightly from the mouth of my friend, Farino, as he continued swinging the machete in his hand. The wild grass was cut slowly. The land was opened little by little to be cultivated together. There was no sense that this work was being done for image-building, social media documentation, or temporary political interests. For him and me, as children of farmers, this activity felt ordinary—so ordinary, in fact—because we had done it since childhood.

Weeding the garden, planting, opening land, harvesting crops, living close to the soil—all of these were not new experiences. We grew up with these activities. Most of us were born into farming families and raised in the village with a rhythm of life shaped by the seasons, the soil, the rain, and the harvest.

Being Indigenous Peoples is an advantage for us. Since childhood, we were taught how to live close to nature—to embrace it, care for it, and understand that humans are part of nature itself. For that reason, living in the village is not something we consider backwardness, but a source of pride and happiness.

There is a special joy in living close to the land, planting, harvesting, and protecting the village where we grew up. For us, protecting the land is not only about defending a living space, but also about maintaining our relationship with our ancestors, culture, and customary rules that have been passed down from generation to generation.

In the village, we learned that nature is not merely an economic resource. Nature is our elder sibling, one that must be respected and protected together.

For us, gardening is not a new activity born from the trend of returning to the village. It is a life we have lived for decades since childhood. Our parents, family, friends, and nature have been our main teachers.

“Reading the book of nature” has become one of the foundations of our cultural knowledge about farming and about how to live in the midst of changing times.

In the past, elders in the village read the signs of nature to determine when to plant. They observed the rain, the direction of the wind, the position of the moon, the mist over the mountains, even the sounds of certain insects to understand the changing seasons. This knowledge was passed down orally from generation to generation. But today, such knowledge is slowly disappearing because fewer young people live close to gardens and nature.

For that reason, protecting the village also means protecting our knowledge of nature so that it does not disappear along with the changes of time.

Therefore, our relationship with the land has never been only an economic relationship. Land is not merely a place of production, but a living space where memory, knowledge, and identity grow. From the land, we learn about seasons, patience, collective work, and how humans live as part of nature, not as its rulers.

Since childhood, we were taught that land must be protected the way we protect our own family. Because when the land is damaged, it is not only food sources that disappear, but also knowledge, culture, and the life of the community slowly begin to vanish.

Slowly, we have also begun to see how the village is changing. Many young people choose to leave because they feel the village no longer promises a future. Some work in the city, on ships, in mining areas, or migrate to other regions. Some only return during Christmas, Thanksgiving celebrations, or when a family member passes away. Slowly, the village loses much of its young energy. Some gardens are no longer cultivated. Some lands are left empty for years because their owners have long gone.

Sometimes we ask ourselves: if all young people leave, who will protect the land? Who will protect the springs, the gardens, the local seeds, and continue the knowledge passed down by our parents?

From such lived experiences, we learned that Indigenous knowledge does not always come from classrooms, but also from gardens, soil, rain, seasons, and everyday life in the village.

Mawale, Mapalus, and Sumembong: A Journey of the Homecoming Movement

I also have a personal story about how the village has always called me to return home.

In recent years, I have often traveled outside the region—to Bogor, Jakarta, and various other places to participate in activities, programs, and film production processes. During those journeys, many friends asked me, “Why are you now spending more time outside the village? Didn’t we used to talk so much about returning to the village and building the village?”

Questions like that made me reflect deeply. And actually, since long ago, I have never truly been able to live far away from the village for a long time. There is always something that makes me want to return. For me, the village is not merely a place to live, but a living space that has shaped who I am today.

That awareness eventually made me decide to do homecoming again, because I had already been carrying the spirit of the homecoming movement since 2009. To return to protecting the village, tending the garden, working with friends, and building life from the land we own ourselves.

Since long ago, I have believed that the village is the most real and certain source of life for me. I never found that feeling while living in the city. In the village, I can live close to the land, plant, harvest, build relationships with the community, and still continue creating and moving together with the community.

For me, making films and building KUMA actually carry the same spirit: protecting the life of the community. Film preserves the memory and stories of the people, while KUMA preserves the people’s relationship with the land and their sources of life. The camera helps us record knowledge, while the garden helps us sustain life itself.

Because of that, for me, cultural work and working the land are never truly separate.

For that reason, choosing to return to the village is not a step backward for me, but a life choice and a cultural consciousness. I want to help revive the economic strength of the community, the strength of culture, and the spirit of togetherness that has long been the foundation of our Indigenous community.

I want old forms of knowledge such as Mapalus and Sumembong to remain alive among our people—not only as stories from the past, but as everyday living practices in managing land, building the village, and maintaining relationships with one another.

Today, that is what we are doing together with friends. We are trying to move again the Kelompok Usaha Masyarakat Adat (KUMA) that we once built independently and collectively. We do all this with the knowledge we have ourselves, with the instincts of our own community, and with the spirit of Mapalus and Sumembong that continues to live among our people.

For us, reviving KUMA also means reviving the belief that the village can stand on its own strength. Indigenous Peoples do not always have to depend entirely on economic systems from outside. The village has land, water, knowledge, collective labor, and social solidarity that have long been the main strengths enabling Indigenous Peoples to survive.

In a political climate where “farming” or “gardening” is often used as a stage for image-building, especially ahead of local elections, gardening has a different meaning for us. Gardening is a political symbol. Gardening is life itself.

In the midst of modern life today, we see that the ability to plant and manage land is increasingly important knowledge. When many people begin to face food insecurity, lose their jobs, or depend entirely on the market, the village still has the ability to survive from its own land.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the village proved to be one of the safest and most strategic places to live. While many cities were temporarily paralyzed, people in the village were still able to survive because they remained close to land, gardens, food sources, and community networks. For those who stayed in the community, the pandemic showed directly that the village is not only a cultural home, but also a source of political and economic strength. From the village, food was still produced and even supplied to people living in the city. This experience made it clear that when the city becomes fragile in times of crisis, the village can still stand, feed itself, and support others.

For that reason, being a farmer is not something outdated for us. It is a form of life knowledge that is very important for the future.

Living in the village is a source of pride. Protecting the land, cultivating gardens, being the child of farmers, even becoming a farmer, is not something shameful. On the contrary, it is where our dignity grows.

We have long worked together. The values of Mapalus and Sumembong live among us. Mapalus—the tradition of collective work in Minahasa—is not only a cultural concept discussed in seminars or academic writing. It lives in everyday practice: helping one another open gardens, working together without calculating personal profit, and sharing time and energy with others. Meanwhile, Sumembong, or baku tulung, is the spirit of helping one another sincerely without expecting anything in return.

Being born into farming families made us accustomed to doing many things from childhood. The village became our first school. Nature became the teacher that taught us about life, perseverance, and how to understand time.

Some of us have completed undergraduate education, while others graduated from high school. But modern education did not uproot us from the land. On the contrary, school and experiences outside the village strengthened our connection to the village.

The thesis that “schooling cuts off the relationship with land and village” does not apply here. Perhaps that happens elsewhere, but not for us.

We live between two worlds at once. We are open to modernity, education, and the latest technology, while remaining close to gardens and land. During breaks in the garden, we play games, browse the internet, read various information, and are active on social media. This spirit lives within the spirit of Mawale.

We do not reject modernity. We use the internet, social media, technology, and learn many things from the outside world. But we also believe that modernity should not cause humans to lose their relationship with land, community, and the nature from which they come. For us, returning to the village does not mean retreating from the development of the times. On the contrary, we are trying to find ways for modernity and Indigenous knowledge to walk together without destroying each other.

Mawale—the consciousness of returning to the village and building a home on one’s own land—is not merely a romantic slogan about the village. It is a cultural consciousness that we live together. Studying and working outside the village made us realize that something feels incomplete when we are disconnected from the land and community from which we come.

That awareness became even clearer after we participated in Sekolah Mawale, held in Wuwuk in 2011.

Sekolah Mawale was not just an ordinary learning space for us. It’s our Indigenous University. It became a space for reflection on the village, identity, and the future. From there, we began to see that returning to the village does not mean rejecting modernity, but searching for ways so that modernity does not sever our relationship with land, culture, and community.

All this time, we have lived by cultivating land, both individually and collectively. We help our parents in the garden, open land together with friends, and share the results of our work together. This collective tradition continues to live in the midst of changing times.

In many homes in the village, women play a very important role in sustaining family and community life. They do not only cook or take care of the house; they also plant, harvest, sell garden produce, and manage the family’s daily food needs. Much knowledge about medicinal plants, seeds, traditional food, and ways of processing garden produce is passed down through women in the village.

In Wuwuk, we are also beginning to strengthen a women-led Mapalus collective as part of KUMA Tawaang. The group consists of Indigenous women farmers who work collectively across each member’s rice field in rotation. Each woman has her own land, but the work is carried out together through the spirit of Mapalus.

Every week, they move from one field to another, helping each other from the earliest stages of cultivation: clearing land, preparing the rice fields, planting, maintaining crops, harvesting, drying paddy, and processing rice. Through this collective system, the burden of labor, production costs, and farming risks are shared together within the community.

For us, this is not only a farming activity. It is also a way of maintaining social solidarity, strengthening food sovereignty, and ensuring that Indigenous women remain central in the community economy.

The women’s Mapalus collective is also connected to the broader circular economy system developed through KUMA. Rice production is linked with pig farming, fish cultivation, corn planting, and household food systems. Rice bran and agricultural byproducts can be reused for animal feed and compost, while livestock and agriculture support one another in a continuous cycle of production.

Within this collective work, women are not only farmers. They are guardians of seeds, food knowledge, family nutrition, and the everyday sustainability of village life. Much of the knowledge about planting seasons, food preparation, medicinal plants, and traditional farming practices continues to live through women in the community.

For us, the women-led Mapalus collective is one of the foundations for rebuilding an Indigenous economy rooted in solidarity, collective labor, and care for the land.

Therefore, collective work in the village is not only driven by men who work in the garden, but also by women who sustain the everyday life of the community.

This is the cultural consciousness lived by Farino Regar, Valentino Rompas, Clief Rumengan, Harly Wuisan Iroth, Petra Rondonuwu, Lisah Rumengan, Aldi Egeten, me and most of the youth Indigenous in Ro’ong Wuwuk. We are also part of the Indigenous Youth Front of the Archipelago, Barisan Pemuda Adat Nusantara, BPAN, South Minahasa Regional Chapter. One concrete expression of that awareness is opening garden land together to be managed collectively.

Learning from Ampreng

The story of how land becomes a source of life, we also learned in the experience of Indra Piri, Chair of BPAN PK Ampreng, and Indigenous youth friends in Ampreng. Together with his family, they depend on farming for their livelihood. There, Mapalus and Ru’kup continue to live as part of the daily life of the community.

Mapalus is a system of mutual cooperation that has been passed down for generations in Minahasa. It is built on mutual trust, reciprocity, and collective responsibility. When one family needs help clearing land, planting, or harvesting crops, other families come to help without wages. This support is given with the understanding that one day the same support will return when they need it.

Meanwhile, Ru’kup is a form of agreement and shared rhythm in working the land. Within it, there is not only collective labor, but also social bonds that are continually maintained through farming together.

“We don’t calculate everything with money,” Indra said. “Sometimes what matters is that no one works alone.”

That spirit is visible in their daily lives. When one of them opens land or harvests crops, the others come to help. They also manage collective gardens, often on rented land, and the results are shared among the members involved.

The story of friends from the Indigenous Youth Front in Ampreng has become an important inspiration for us about how Indigenous Peoples can move the village economy through their own strength. From their experience, we learned that the community economy actually has enormous potential when land, production, and distribution are directly managed by the community.

The story of Ampreng shows that village communities are not only able to cultivate land, but also able to maintain the entire economic flow—from production, processing harvests, to distribution to the market. From there, people can gain two things at once: keeping the land alive and cared for, while also meeting daily needs from the results of their own work and sweat.

For us, this is one concrete form of sovereignty. When people are able to live from their own land, they are not only building an economy, but also protecting their relationship with nature, defending customary territories, and ensuring that village life still has a future.

For them, land is not only a source of food, but also a source of life and a space for maintaining social relationships within the community.

Tomatoes are one of the crops often chosen because they have fairly high economic value and can be grown on relatively small plots of land. This season, the results of tomatoes and chilies have been quite good.

According to Deddy, based on their most recent harvest experience, a quarter-hectare tomato field can produce around 400 boxes of tomatoes. Each box weighs around 20 kilograms. With the current market price at around IDR 400,000 per box , gross income from one harvest season can reach IDR 160 million.

After deducting production costs such as seeds, fertilizer, and transportation, the estimated net profit is around IDR 150 million for one planting season. In one year, the land can even be planted up to three times. That means that one small plot of land alone has the potential to generate around IDR 450 million per year.

Chilies, or rica, also provide significant economic returns. From a quarter-hectare plot, the harvest can reach around 1,000 kilograms. With current local market prices, that harvest can generate around IDR 50 million in one planting season. If they can carry out two to three planting cycles in a year, the profit from chilies alone can reach IDR 100 million to IDR 150 million per year.

If combined, tomatoes and chilies alone can allow one farmer to earn around IDR 550 million to IDR 600 million per year. And that only comes from two types of crops, not including other crops, livestock, or other collective enterprises.

But the life of farmers is not always easy.

“The price can fall in just one night,” Deddy said. “Sometimes we harvest with hope, but sell with disappointment.”

That sentence reveals another face of farmers’ lives. On one hand, land can provide great results. On the other hand, farmers always live with price uncertainty. They can work for months, care for plants every day, and then, when harvest time arrives, the market price suddenly collapses. The hope carried from the garden does not always become profit when it reaches the market.

For that reason, for us, farming is not just a job. It is a way of keeping village life alive. Protecting the land means protecting the future, protecting food sources, and also protecting the relationship between humans, nature, and the Indigenous community itself.

Yet farmers often continue to live with uncertainty. The price of crops can rise very high, but it can also fall drastically because of overproduction and weak control over the market. For that reason, the biggest problem for farmers is not only how to plant and harvest, but also how to manage distribution, markets, and the processing of their own production.

Slowly, we have also begun to see how some land in the village has started to be sold. Some gardens are no longer cultivated because their owners have left or feel that farming no longer promises a decent life. If this situation continues, the village could lose not only land, but also knowledge, social relationships, and the collective life that has long kept the community strong.

For that reason, protecting land for us is not only an economic matter, but also a matter of defending the life of the Indigenous community itself.

The story from Ampreng shows us that the economic power of the village should not be underestimated. From there, we increasingly believe that Indigenous Peoples have the ability to manage land, production, distribution, and their own economic life. This awareness also became one of the foundations for the birth of KUMA Tawaang in Wuwuk.

The Birth of KUMA Tawaang

Inong—Farino Regar’s familiar nickname—still remembers the night of September 8, 2020.

Like many other nights, we gathered at Allen Rompas’s house after a full day of working in the garden or on construction projects. We joked, talked, played games, or simply rested while browsing the internet. But that night felt a little different. There was something we were preparing.

“So, what now?” Inong asked, opening the conversation.

“Tomorrow we will start clearing the garden. We will form a KUMA. We will mark it by opening Allen’s garden, then cooking Minahasa food and eating together,” said Aldi Egeten, Chair of BPAN South Minahasa.

That night, we discussed a plan that had actually grown in our minds for a long time: managing the village and its resources together through a Kelompok Usaha Masyarakat Adat, an Indigenous Community Enterprise Group.

“Okay. Let’s start tomorrow morning,” Allen replied briefly.

We then divided the tasks. Some were responsible for clearing the land, some prepared tools, and others handled the food supplies.

“Tomorrow morning, I and Kale will go to the market to buy things for cooking. The others should get ready to go to the garden first,” said Lisah, a young woman from Wuwuk who is always full of energy in collective work like this.

The night grew late. The conversation slowly ended. The next day, we would begin something important.

Nights in the village are usually quiet. Only the sound of insects from the gardens, dogs barking in the distance, and occasionally the sound of a motorcycle passing through the village road can be heard. House lights glow dimly in the cold mountain air. In such an atmosphere, conversations about gardens, crop prices, land, the village, and the future often continue late into the night. Many important decisions about working together are born precisely from simple conversations like these.

The next morning, before the sun rose high, we had gathered and walked to Allen’s garden at the edge of the village. About five hundred meters from the main road, a plot of land known in Minahasa as Katanaan(g) was to be opened and cultivated together. There, we began planting corn, chilies, rice, and various other food crops that have long been part of village life.

That day, we worked together to clear the land. After the work was done, we cooked Minahasa food and ate together in the garden. In that simple atmosphere, the Kelompok Usaha Masyarakat Adat (KUMA) was born, and we named it: Tawaang.

Smoke from the firewood slowly rose from one corner of the garden as several friends began cooking. Some were still cutting grass and clearing the land, while others began preparing corn, rica, and various Minahasa dishes to be eaten together.

That day, the garden felt alive. Not only because of the activity of opening the land, but because there was a spirit of togetherness growing again.

Tawaang: A Symbol of Land, Ritual, and Life

The name was not chosen randomly.

Tawaang is a plant with very high cultural and spiritual value for the Minahasa people. In the life of Minahasa Indigenous communities, this plant is often used in various customary and spiritual rituals. In addition, Tawaang is also known as a medicinal plant used in traditional healing.

Not only that, Tawaang is also often planted as a marker of land boundaries. It becomes a symbol of the relationship between humans and land, with living space, and with customary territory. For that reason, this plant is not merely an ordinary plant, but part of the knowledge and cultural life of the Minahasa people.

These values are what made us choose Tawaang as the name of the Indigenous Community Enterprise Group in the Ubu Indigenous community. For us, Tawaang symbolizes life, protection, connection to the land, and a cultural identity that continues to live amid changing times.

Sovereign, Independent, and Dignified is the main slogan of KUMA Tawaang. These three words reflect our commitment to building the strength of Indigenous Peoples from within the village itself: sovereign over our land and customary territory, independent in managing the community economy, and dignified in protecting Minahasa culture and identity. This slogan is also inspired by the spirit of struggle of the Indigenous Peoples Alliance of the Archipelago, AMAN: politically sovereign, economically independent, and culturally dignified. For us, this slogan is not merely a set of words, but a direction for KUMA Tawaang’s struggle to build an Indigenous community life that is strong, just, and rooted in our own knowledge, values, and ways of life.

Indigenous Youth as the Driving Force of KUMA

KUMA Tawaang is driven mainly by Indigenous youth, but it also receives full support from elders in our community. In the organizational structure, Indigenous youth become the main motor that runs various organizational activities, from program management and administration to strengthening the community economy. That is why positions such as secretary and treasurer are held by Indigenous youth.

Meanwhile, for the position of chairperson, we chose a elder figure from our community. For us, this is important because KUMA is not merely an ordinary economic organization, but also part of Indigenous community life that must remain connected to Minahasa knowledge, values, and leadership systems.

Through the involvement of elders, we can continue learning how Minahasa people manage nature, maintain relationships with the land, and understand the values of leadership and responsibility within the community. The presence of elders also reminds us that community economy must not be separated from local knowledge and customary rules that have long protected the life of the community.

Therefore, even though KUMA works in the field of enterprise and community economy, the leadership model we use still follows the leadership values of Minahasa society. Elders becomes the leader in the KUMA structure, while Indigenous youth become the main movers who carry out collective work in the field.

KUMA Governance: Building Trust and Responsibility

In the work of KUMA, one important thing we continue to learn is how to build honest, open, and fair governance. Collective work can only survive if there is trust among members. Therefore, every enterprise run together must be recorded properly: how much capital is used, who works, how much income is generated, and how the results are shared. For us, this kind of management is important so that KUMA does not only live because of enthusiasm, but also becomes organizationally strong.

We want KUMA to become a space that teaches Indigenous youth about responsibility. Not only responsibility for opening gardens or raising livestock, but also responsibility for managing administration, recording finances, building trust, and making decisions together. In this way, Indigenous youth do not only become labor in the village, but also managers of the future of their own village.

Reviving KUMA

KUMA Tawaang, which we formed in 2020, was quite active until around 2024. During that period, we managed gardens together, opened land, and began building collective work based on the Indigenous community. However, over time, KUMA activities temporarily became inactive. Some of us became busy with our own activities—some focused on managing personal gardens, some worked, and others ran production activities independently.

Even so, the spirit of building the village economy never truly disappeared.

In 2025, we began reviving KUMA. We gathered again and started various shared activities, such as raising pigs, planting rice, planting chilies and corn, and raising golden fish as part of our effort to rebuild community food sovereignty.

At present, we raise golden fish in several ponds that we manage together. Initially, the number of golden fish we raised reached around 400. However, in one of the ponds, around 200 golden fish were stolen, leaving only two fish behind. Because of that, the number of golden fish remaining is now around nearly 200 in another pond.

Even though we experienced loss, we continue this effort. We plan to harvest in July, coinciding with the Thanksgiving celebration in Minahasa, when demand for golden fish is usually quite high. In addition, we are currently planting chilies and corn as part of strengthening the community’s economy and food system.

For village communities, losses like this are actually not new. There are many challenges in building community enterprises: limited capital, market access, the risk of theft, and uncertainty in crop prices. But we believe that collective work must continue, even if slowly.

Because what we are building is not only an economic enterprise, but also trust and the spirit of living together in the village.

However, KUMA was not formed only to manage gardens. From the beginning, we imagined it as a collective space to manage the various potentials that live in the village—from agriculture and livestock to crafts.

Economic Valuation of Indigenous Peoples

The economic valuation of Indigenous Peoples is important not to turn land and village life into mere numbers, but to show that the village has economic strength that has often not been seriously counted. Many people see the village as a backward space, even though if calculated from the land, gardens, livestock, local knowledge, and community labor, the economic circulation is very large.

The story from Ampreng is not only about farmers successfully earning money from the land. It is also about the vulnerability of farmers when they do not have control over prices, distribution, and markets. This is where building collective economic strength such as KUMA or BUMMA (Badan Usaha Milik Masyarakat Adat) becomes important, so that communities are not only producers of raw materials, but can gradually manage distribution channels, process harvests, and build a fairer market for the community.

This means that in a village like Ampreng, where there are dozens of active farmers continuously managing land, the economic circulation from agriculture is actually very large. If, for example, there are around thirty to fifty farmers—though in reality there may be more—the total money circulating from agricultural products can reach around IDR 16 billion to IDR 30 billion per year.

And that figure does not yet include the results of other crops, livestock, or derivative products processed from agricultural produce. This shows that the village actually has enormous economic strength. Land is able to give life and generate significant economic circulation for the people.

The story from Ampreng also becomes a mirror for us in our own village. If people are able to protect the land, manage the production process, and regulate the distribution of harvests to the market, then the village can actually stand on its own strength. People can live from the work and sweat of their own hands without being uprooted from their land and community.

Our village, Wuwuk, is also known as one of the producers of Cap Tikus atau Sopi. The majority of people in our village are farmers, but many also work as cap tikus producers. For some families, cap tikus has become one of the main sources of income. In many cases, income from cap tikus can even be higher than the salary of civil servants.

My father, my older brother, and several of my uncles, for example, have long earned income from cap tikus. From that income, they can meet daily needs, send children to school, build houses, buy land, and open and develop gardens.

In one day, a cap tikus producer can produce around 40 bottles. If they work six days a week, total production can reach around 240 bottles per week. With a selling price of around IDR 30,000 per bottle, gross income in one week can reach: 240 bottles × IDR 30,000 = IDR 7,200,000 per week. If calculated in one month, with an average of four working weeks, gross income from cap tikus can reach around: IDR 7,200,000 × 4 = IDR 28,800,000 per month. If calculated in one year, one cap tikus producer can earn a gross income of around: IDR 28,800,000 × 12 months = IDR 345,600,000 per year.

This figure is of course still gross income and has not been reduced by production costs, labor, fuel, transportation, or other needs. But from this simple calculation, we can see that the village economy is actually very strong. Cap tikus is not only a traditional drink, but also part of the village economy that has long supported many families.

There are dozens of cap tikus makers in my village—nearly a hundred. Let’s count. If There are around 10 cap tikus producers in the village, the money circulating from cap tikus alone can reach around IDR 3.4 billion per year. If there are 20 producers, the amount can reach around IDR 6.9 billion per year. If there are 30 producers, the economic circulation can reach around IDR 10.3 billion per year. If there are 50 producers, the amount can reach around IDR 17.2 billion per year. Even if the number of cap tikus producers approaches 100 people, the money circulating from cap tikus alone can reach around IDR 34.5 billion per year.

From these numbers, it can be seen that our village economy is actually very large. And that is only from one economic source, namely cap tikus. Beyond that, the village community also has other sources of income from corn, cloves, coconut, copra, rice, chilies, fish, pigs, and various other garden and livestock products.

Coconut trees, for example, can be harvested around once every four months, meaning up to three harvests in one year. In our community, coconuts are planted and cultivated not only to meet daily needs, such as making coconut oil and cooking, but also to produce copra.

Based on the current copra price range of around Rp15,000 to Rp20,000 per kilogram, one farmer who produces 100 to 200 kilograms of copra every four months can earn approximately Rp1.5 million to Rp4 million per harvest. Since copra can be produced up to three times a year, this means that one farmer may earn around Rp4.5 million to Rp12 million per year, or an average of Rp375,000 to Rp1 million per month from copra alone.

At the village level, around 100 farmers own coconut gardens and produce copra, the total production could reach approximately 10 to 20 tons per harvest, or 30 to 60 tons per year. With the current price range, this could generate around Rp150 million to Rp400 million per harvest, or approximately Rp450 million to Rp1.2 billion per year. This shows that copra is not only a household livelihood, but also an important economic foundation for the village.

Cloves, meanwhile, are usually harvested once a year, but when the harvest is good and market prices are favorable, cloves can also become a major source of income for the community.

Clove is one of the strongest seasonal economic sources in Wuwuk. Based on local production estimates, around 400 of Wuwuk peoples own clove gardens, and each farmer can produce approximately 400 to 500 kilograms of dried cloves in one harvest season. Since cloves are generally harvested once a year, the total dried clove production in the village can reach around 160 to 200 tons per year.

With local market prices ranging from Rp114,500 per kilogram to Rp210,000 per kilogram for premium-quality dried cloves, the annual economic value of clove production in the village can reach approximately Rp18.3 billion to Rp42 billion. This shows that clove farming is not only an individual household livelihood, but also one of the main economic foundations of the village.

The cash flow of farming families in Wuwuk can be understood through two main layers: daily needs and larger seasonal needs. For everyday expenses, many families rely on faster and more regular sources of income, such as the weekly sale of cap tikus, as well as wage labor in farming or construction. This weekly income supports daily household needs such as food, transportation, school allowances, and other small but constant expenses. In this way, the everyday village economy is sustained by income that moves quickly, circulates regularly, and is immediately used to support family life.

Meanwhile, larger financial needs are usually supported by seasonal agricultural income, especially cloves and copra. Cloves, which are generally harvested once a year, often function as a form of family savings. The income from cloves is commonly used for larger expenses such as children’s education, buying household goods, building or repairing houses, purchasing land, opening new gardens, or meeting important family and customary obligations. Copra also plays an important role because it can be harvested several times a year. It does not circulate as quickly as cap tikus, but it provides income more regularly than cloves and can help families meet medium to larger financial needs.

This shows that the village economy is not built from a single source of income, but from a layered system of livelihoods that support one another. Cap tikus and wage labor keep daily and weekly cash circulation alive. Copra supports periodic needs. Cloves become the main source for larger annual expenses. Together, these sources form the real cash flow of the village economy—an economy shaped by land, seasons, family labor, local knowledge, and the ability of the community to manage different sources of livelihood according to their own rhythm of life.

From this, it is clear that our village actually has many economic strengths. The problem is often not that the village lacks resources, but that these economic sources are not always managed collectively, regularly, and sustainably. For that reason, the presence of KUMA becomes important as a shared space to begin mapping, managing, and strengthening all the economic potential that already lives within the community.

However, the economic strength of cap tikus also needs to be thought about more seriously. All this time, cap tikus has supported many families, but most of it still operates within a traditional system and is not yet fully organized. Therefore, moving forward, we need to think about how the community’s knowledge and skills in processing palm sap and producing cap tikus can be placed within a safer, more responsible, and more dignified framework.

For us, what matters is not only how much money is generated, but how that economic source can be managed without damaging the social life of the community. If one day this potential is developed further, there must be serious discussion about production quality, work safety, community rules, responsible use, and the possibility of derivative products that align with the law and customary values. In this way, the economic strength of the village is not only large in numbers, but also healthy for the community.

Therefore, one of KUMA’s important tasks moving forward is to map all economic sources in the village. From coconut gardens, cloves, corn, rice, chilies, carp, pigs, crafts, medicinal plants, cap tikus, to the community’s knowledge in processing natural products. All this potential has long lived in the village, but it has not always been connected to one another. Through KUMA, we want to see all these potentials as part of one community economic ecosystem.

If every potential is recorded, mapped, and managed together, the community will more easily see the strength of its own village. We can know what can be produced, when the harvest season comes, who is involved, how distribution works, and what kind of market can be built. From there, KUMA can become a kind of center for village economic knowledge born from the community’s own experience.

We also learn from the story of food sovereignty lived by our Indigenous youth friends in Ampreng. If in Ampreng the soil and climate are very suitable for horticultural crops such as tomatoes and chilies, the situation in our village is somewhat different. Because it is located in a mountainous area, the land in our village is more suitable for perennial crops such as cloves, coconut, and vanilla. However, some food crops such as rice, corn, and chilies can also grow well.

Therefore, we began developing chili and corn cultivation as part of our effort to build community food sovereignty. In addition to farming, we also raise fish and pigs as additional sources of income for the community.

Besides fish, chilies are also a very important commodity in Minahasa. There is even a joke among people that it is better for fuel prices to rise than for chili prices to rise. Minahasa people love spicy food, so when chili prices increase, it is immediately felt in everyday life.

That is why we try to plant our own chilies, not only for economic needs, but also to help meet community needs, especially before major seasons such as Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year. During those times, chili prices often rise to IDR 100,000 or more than IDR 150,000 per kilogram.

In one harvest, we can produce around 40 kilograms of chilies. If in one season we can harvest up to twenty times, the total harvest can reach around 800 kilograms of chilies. With an average price of IDR 100,000 per kilogram, chili sales can reach around IDR 80 million in one season. If the market price is high, the results can of course be much larger.

In addition, we also raise pigs. A small piglet is usually bought for around IDR 1.5 million. Within about three months, the pig can reach around 70 kilograms and can already be sold or harvested. With pork priced at around IDR 90,000 per kilogram, one pig can generate around IDR 6.3 million. After deducting the cost of buying the piglet and feed, the profit remains quite significant for village communities.

From the examples of Ampreng and Wuwuk, the economic valuation of Indigenous Peoples shows that villages actually have great economic strength, but it is often not counted or taken seriously. In Ampreng, agricultural products such as tomatoes and chilies show that the economic circulation from land can reach tens of billions of rupiah per year when calculated from dozens of active farmers continuously managing land. Meanwhile in Wuwuk, that economic strength is also visible through cap tikus, which for many families is a main source of livelihood. If one cap tikus producer can earn a gross income of around IDR 345.6 million per year, then when dozens of people work in this sector, the circulation of money in the village can reach tens of billions of rupiah per year. And that is only from one economic source, not including coconut, cloves, corn, rice, chilies, fish, pigs, and other sources of livelihood that come from land and local knowledge.

Economic Valuation of Indigenous Peoples refers to the process of identifying and explaining the economic value of Indigenous Peoples’ lives, knowledge, practices, and territories. This value is not only measured through money or market production, but also through the real contributions Indigenous Peoples make in protecting forests, land, water, local food systems, traditional medicine, languages, culture, and knowledge systems passed down from generation to generation. In this sense, Indigenous economies are not only based on goods and income, but also on a sustainable relationship between people, nature, ancestors, and community.

In many cases, the economic value of Indigenous Peoples is not fully recognized by modern economic systems. For example, an Indigenous forest may not generate daily cash income, but it provides clean water, prevents landslides, protects soil, supports food and medicine, provides building materials, holds spiritual meaning, and helps maintain climate balance. In the same way, practices such as farming, copra production, forest-based livelihoods, Mapalus, and other forms of collective work carry strong economic, social, ecological, and cultural value, even when they are not counted in formal development policies.

Therefore, the Economic Valuation of Indigenous Peoples is important because it shows that Indigenous Peoples are not “left behind,” but are guardians of life systems that hold great value for the future. This valuation can help strengthen the recognition of Indigenous land rights, support fair policies, open access to community-based funding, and ensure that development does not destroy local economic systems that have sustained communities for generations.

Therefore, the economic valuation of Indigenous Peoples is not merely an effort to calculate money from land, gardens, livestock, or community production. More than that, valuation is a way to show that villages have their own economic systems that live from land, local knowledge, family labor, and collective community work. The problem is not that the village lacks potential, but that this potential has often not been mapped, not yet managed together, and not yet strengthened through fair distribution systems and markets. This is where KUMA or BUMMA becomes important: as a space to reread the economic strength of Indigenous Peoples, connect the various sources of livelihood that already exist, and build a community economy that is more independent, organized, and dignified.

Economic valuation is also important as a tool for building the bargaining position of Indigenous Peoples. All this time, many development policies have often seen villages only from the side of scarcity: damaged roads, distant market access, limited infrastructure, or income levels that are not formally recorded. Yet when the economic sources of the village are counted more honestly—from agriculture, livestock, forest products, medicinal plants, local knowledge, to family labor—it becomes clear that Indigenous Peoples have long built a strong economic system from their own living territories. Through economic valuation, that strength can be read, shown, and used as a basis to fight for recognition, support, and policies that are more aligned with Indigenous Peoples.

However, the economic valuation of Indigenous Peoples must still be understood carefully. Numbers must not replace the value of land, social relations, adat, spirituality, and knowledge that live within the community. For Indigenous Peoples, land is not only an economic asset, but a living space, a source of food, a place to work, a place to learn, a place to return home, and a place to maintain relationships with ancestors and future generations. Therefore, economic valuation is not meant to turn the village merely into a market object, but to show that protecting customary territories is the same as protecting the economy, culture, food, knowledge, and future of Indigenous Peoples themselves.

Indigenous Agroecology

Agroecology, in many ways, is not a completely new idea for Indigenous Peoples. Long before terms such as “sustainable agriculture” or “agroecology” became widely discussed in academic or development spaces, Indigenous communities had already lived through systems of farming, land stewardship, food production, and collective work rooted in their own ways of life.

For us, agroecology is deeply connected to the cosmological relationship between Indigenous Peoples and nature. The core of agroecology is not merely about farming techniques or environmentally friendly production methods, but about how humans understand themselves as part of nature itself. Land is not only a production space, but a living space connected to ancestors, spirituality, memory, culture, and future generations.

Within Indigenous communities, farming, gardening, raising livestock, protecting forests, maintaining water sources, and organizing collective labor are all part of one interconnected system of life. Nature is not viewed merely as an economic resource, but as a relative that must be respected, protected, and cared for together.

This understanding is reflected in the values of Mapalus and Sumembong that continue to live within our community. Collective work, reciprocity, shared responsibility, and maintaining balance between humans and nature are all important foundations of how we manage land and sustain community life.

Through KUMA, we are trying to continue and rebuild these Indigenous agroecological relationships in the midst of changing times. By planting rice, corn, chilies, raising pigs and fish, protecting land, and strengthening collective work, we are not only producing food, but also maintaining relationships between people, nature, culture, and community life itself.

From Production to Community Markets

At present, we are also beginning to think about how to process cap tikus products into something that can be developed through KUMA. During the COVID-19 pandemic, Cap Tikus was once processed into hand sanitizer as part of the community’s effort to respond to health needs during a crisis. From that experience, we saw that local knowledge and resources in the village actually have much potential to be developed further.

For us, things like this are important because KUMA is not only about selling raw products from the village. We want to learn how to process natural products into goods with added value, managed by the community itself, and still rooted in the local knowledge we have.

We realize that the future of the village does not only depend on raw products from the garden, but also on the community’s ability to transform local knowledge into products with added value. For that reason, KUMA is slowly becoming a shared learning space about production, distribution, product processing, and how to build a more independent community economy.

All these experiences have made us realize that the economic strength of the village cannot stop only at production. The community also needs to think about how products are processed, stored, distributed, and marketed more fairly.

KUMA, is one way for us to centralize the economy and strengthen economic circulation in the village and within the community. Through KUMA, we seek to manage various resources within the community together, from agricultural products, livestock, crafts, to other potentials that live within the Indigenous community.

With KUMA, we also learn to manage distribution channels for our products, both for the needs of the community itself and for markets that we build independently. We begin the market from within the community itself, so that economic circulation remains in the village. When money, production, and daily needs continue to circulate within the community, the community economy will grow stronger and more independent.

For us, however, the presence of KUMA is not only about economic independence. KUMA is also closely connected to food sovereignty and sovereignty over Indigenous territory. Because when we are able to manage land, food, and resources in our own customary territory, we are also protecting the rights, life, and future of our community.

By being sovereign over customary territory, we have the ability to regulate, protect, and manage all the potential within it—whether economic potential, local knowledge, food sources, or cultural values that have long strengthened the life of our Indigenous community.

For us, KUMA is not only about money or enterprise. It is a way to keep village life alive, to maintain the relationship with land, and to ensure that the future of the Indigenous community continues to grow from its own cultural roots. KUMA is not merely a business organization. It is also an intergenerational learning space. Within it, young people learn from elders about how to read nature, manage land, understand the seasons, and understand how Minahasa people maintain social relationships within the community.

Therefore, KUMA does not only move in economic affairs, but also becomes a space to keep Indigenous knowledge alive amid changing times.

We imagine that one day KUMA will not only manage gardens, livestock, or harvests, but will also be able to build its own community market, process food products into derivative goods, build a small production house, and create a learning space for the younger generation in the village.

The community market we imagine is not only a place to sell goods. It is a space of encounter between work, knowledge, and community needs. In such a market, garden products do not simply leave the village, but first fulfill the needs of the village itself. Chilies, corn, rice, fish, pigs, coconut, cloves, and processed products can circulate within the community before being sold outside.

In this way, money does not quickly leave the village. The work of the community returns to sustain the community itself. This is what we mean by strengthening the circulation of the village economy: not only selling as much as possible outside, but ensuring that the village also becomes the center of its own economic life.

The Village as the Future of Indigenous Peoples

We want young people to see that the village actually has a future. That living in the village does not mean living behind. That from their own land, people can build a decent, independent, and dignified life.

In the city, people often measure wealth by money, buildings, or material possessions. But in the village, we learn that being rich also means having land that can still be planted, water that still flows, food that can still be harvested, and a community that still protects one another.

For us, wealth is not only about what is owned individually, but about whether the community can still live together and survive together.

We also realize that building KUMA cannot be done in a short time. There are many things we still have to learn: how to prepare a business plan, how to record finances, how to maintain members’ commitment, how to share results fairly, how to face harvest failures, and how to build markets that do not harm farmers. All of this is a long learning process.

But precisely there lies the strength of KUMA. It is not only an end result, but a process of learning together. Within it, we learn to be farmers, managers, record keepers, leaders, workers, and guardians of the village at the same time. KUMA makes us understand that building the economy of Indigenous Peoples is not only about generating money, but also about building the community’s ability to govern itself.

In the end, KUMA is our way of answering the big questions about the future of the village. Can young people still live in the village? Can land still be a source of life? Can Indigenous knowledge still survive amid changing times? Can the community economy be built without people having to leave their own land?

Our answer is not yet perfect. But we are starting. From small gardens, from fish ponds, from pig pens, from chili plants, from rice, from corn, from cap tikus, from night conversations at a friend’s house, from working together in the garden, and from the belief that the village still has a future.

Today, our steps may still be small. We open gardens slowly, raise fish slowly, plant chilies slowly, and rebuild collective work little by little. But for us, all of this is part of a long effort to ensure that the village remains alive.

Because as long as people still protect their land, as long as Mapalus and Sumembong still live among us, and as long as young people are still willing to return home to the village, Indigenous Peoples will always have a future.

Perhaps our gardens are not large. Perhaps our steps are still small. Perhaps our harvests do not always succeed. But as long as there are still people willing to open land together, plant together, eat together, and protect the village together, the life of Indigenous Peoples will never truly disappear.

Because for us, protecting the village is not only about surviving today, but about ensuring that the next generation still has land to return to, food to eat, and stories to inherit.