New Media in the Margins: Lived Realities and Experiences from the Malaysian Peripheries 9811971404, 9789811971402

Table of contents :
Acknowledgements
Contents
List of Contributors
List of Figures
List of Tables
1 Introduction
Introduction
What This Book Is About
Multiple Digital Publics
The Chapters
References
Part I Indigenous Rights and Representation
2 Native Customary Rights Land Titles and Thwarting Deforestation: Digital Acts of Resistance Among Sarawak’s Indigenous Peoples
Introduction
Overview: Politics or Native Land Titles?
NCR Land
The Legal Dimension
The 1958 Land Code
The Political Dimension
Indigenous Peoples and Digital Activism
Indigenous Activism Going Forward
References
3 Some Orang Asli Still Think Najib Is PM: Representations and Self-Representations of the Orang Asli in the Cameron Highlands By-election
Introduction
The Orang Asli in Malaysia
Media Representation of Indigenous People
In Malaysia
Overseas
Indigenous Use of Social Media
Method and Findings
Findings
Setting the (Mainstream Media) Agenda
Narratives of Outsiders
Election Analysis
Discourse Among the Orang Asli
Informal Online Spaces
Common Emergent Themes
Cynicism
Conclusion
References
Part II Migrant and Refugee Discourses
4 Romance Through Digital Avatars: Online Courtship, Representation and “Catfishing” Amongst Irregular Female Migrants in Sabah
Introduction
A day in Two Lives
Reading Sabah’s Migrant Landscape
Marriage and Romance in the Interdict
The Labour and Function of Digital Avatars
Social Capital of Online Romances
Conclusion
References
5 Grateful Politics: Rohingya and Social Media in the Time of the Pandemic
Introduction
The Rohingya, Refugees and Malaysia in the Time of the Pandemic
Anti-Rohingya Sentiment on Social Media
Social Media and the Everyday Politics of Refugees
The “Grateful Refugee” and Refugee Agency
Countering Anti-Rohingya Sentiment
Performing Gratitude
Refugee Narratives
Hashtag Campaigns
Responses to Petitions
Conclusion
References
Part III The “Othered” Minorities
6 Confronting Malaysian Indian Stereotypes and State Neglect: The ‘SuguPavithra’ Episode Within Mainstream National Discourse
Introduction
Structural Limitations to Malaysian Indian Social Mobility
The SuguPavithra Channel
Rise to Fame
Tapping into the Malay YouTube Zeitgeist
Public and National Recognition
Fall from Grace
The Apathetic Malaysian Audience
The False Promise of the “Ideal Malaysian” Performance
Conclusion
References
7 ‘Our Online-Ness Matters’: The Construction of Social Media Presences by Malaysian LGBTQ Communities
Introduction
LGBTQ Communities in Malaysia
Meanings, Functions and Management Strategies
The ‘Being Out Online’ Persona
The ‘Profiting from Being Out Online’ Persona
The ‘Promoting Activism by Being Out Online’ Persona
Benefits, Drawbacks and the Future
Towards Open and Supportive Dialogue
Conclusion
References
8 A ‘Blue Ocean’ for Marginalised Radical Voices: Cyberspace, Social Media and Extremist Discourse in Malaysia
Introduction
Punitive Anti-terrorism Laws
From Hotel Bellboy to ‘Cyber-Jihadist’
Democracy, Postmodernity and Cyberspace
The Manifestation of the Discourse of Extremism in Cyberspace
Case I: Religious-Oriented Radicalisation
Case II: Political-Oriented Radicalisation
Case III: Health-Oriented Radicalisation
Managing Radicalisation and Extremist Discourse
Conclusion
References
Index

Citation preview

New Media in the Margins Lived Realities and Experiences from the Malaysian Peripheries Edited by Benjamin YH Loh · James Chin

New Media in the Margins

Benjamin YH Loh · James Chin Editors

New Media in the Margins Lived Realities and Experiences from the Malaysian Peripheries

Editors Benjamin YH Loh School of Media and Communication Taylor’s University Subang Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia

James Chin School of Social Sciences University of Tasmania Sandy Bay, Tasmania, Australia

ISBN 978-981-19-7140-2 ISBN 978-981-19-7141-9 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Edwin Tan/Gettyimages This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. The registered company address is: 152 Beach Road, #21-01/04 Gateway East, Singapore 189721, Singapore

Acknowledgements

This book was first conceptualised in 2020 due to the gap in knowledge about online spaces in Malaysia, especially those utilised by minority and marginalised groups. While not entire a major focus of this book, the study of online spaces became all the more pertinent as many communities were left behind due to COVID-19 lockdown restrictions and the shutting down of economic activities in Malaysia. We, the editors, cannot thank enough everyone involved in this book, especially our contributors, who took great care in representing these often poorly represented groups in their respective chapters. We are also immensely thankful to all the online communities that have become a part of this book, whose struggles, and challenges we aimed to highlight with some hope of improving exposure and bringing about more positive developments for Minorities in the country. It is an honour to have a role in sharing your stories. More research is needed to shed the light on many ‘Othered’ communities in Malaysia, and we hope this volume will lead others to look at these difficult, and often, hidden communities. While we were not able to represent all such communities here, this book could start a conversation through other case studies on similar issues. The book essentially positions new media as both a tool for the oppressed and the oppressor and deeper study is sorely needed to make online spaces an equitable environment for all. We thank you, the reader

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

for taking the time to understand the plight of our subjects and that in doing so, you also do more to assist them. We would also like to thank our publisher, Palgrave-Macmillan for agreeing to publish this book and for recognising that this is an underserved area. Our utmost thanks go to William Tham for his invaluable work in putting this book together. Finally, as editors, our work on this book could not have been possible without the support of our institutions, our families (Vila, Doria, Cayla, Christa and Catrina), friends and colleagues, who had to endure listening to our constant workshopping over the last two years. It is only through all your love and support that this book is finally ready. September 2022

Benjamin YH Loh James Chin

Contents

1

Introduction Benjamin YH Loh and James Chin

1

Part I Indigenous Rights and Representation 2

3

Native Customary Rights Land Titles and Thwarting Deforestation: Digital Acts of Resistance Among Sarawak’s Indigenous Peoples Nuurrianti Jalli and James Chin Some Orang Asli Still Think Najib Is PM: Representations and Self-Representations of the Orang Asli in the Cameron Highlands By-election Benjamin YH Loh and Rusaslina Idrus

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Part II Migrant and Refugee Discourses 4

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Romance Through Digital Avatars: Online Courtship, Representation and “Catfishing” Amongst Irregular Female Migrants in Sabah Vilashini Somiah Grateful Politics: Rohingya and Social Media in the Time of the Pandemic Nursyazwani and Aslam Abd Jalil

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CONTENTS

Part III The “Othered” Minorities 6

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Confronting Malaysian Indian Stereotypes and State Neglect: The ‘SuguPavithra’ Episode Within Mainstream National Discourse Shanthi Thambiah and Benjamin YH Loh ‘Our Online-Ness Matters’: The Construction of Social Media Presences by Malaysian LGBTQ Communities Collin anak Jerome A ‘Blue Ocean’ for Marginalised Radical Voices: Cyberspace, Social Media and Extremist Discourse in Malaysia Ahmad El-Muhammady

Index

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163

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List of Contributors

Aslam Abd Jalil School of Social Science, The University of Queensland, St Lucia, QLD, USA James Chin School of Social Sciences, University of Tasmania, Tasmania, Australia Ahmad El-Muhammady International (IIUM), Selangor, Malaysia

Islamic

University

Malaysia

Rusaslina Idrus Gender Studies Programme, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Universiti Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia Nuurrianti Jalli Northern State University, Aberdeen, SD, USA Collin anak Jerome Faculty of Language and Communication, Universiti Malaysia Sarawak, Kota Samarahan, Malaysia Benjamin YH Loh School of Media and Communication, Taylor’s University, Selangor, Malaysia Nursyazwani Department of Anthropology, Penn Museum, Philadelphia, PA, USA Vilashini Somiah Gender Studies Programme, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Universiti Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia Shanthi Thambiah Gender Studies Programme, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Universiti Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia ix

List of Figures

Fig. 2.1 Fig. 2.2

Fig. 2.3

Fig. 8.1

Illustrating the types of territorial domains A photograph shared on the NCR Land Rights Facebook group on 18 June 2019 by one of the members. After a Google reverse image search, we found that the photo first appeared in the Borneo Post on 21 December 2016, following the Federal Court’s ruling that NCR land could not be obtained through the pemakai menoa or pulau galau systems. In such cases, an inability to prove claims over their land, therefore, means that it is considered unoccupied and automatically belongs to the state (Ngidang 2002) (Source Borneo Post) The total interactions in the NCR Land Rights group from 1 April 2019 to 1 April 2020. These exceeded 736,000, with 14,000 weekly interactions. There were about 14,000 total posts by group members during this period, with about 70% of the content related to NCR land disputes. Other content related to Sarawak’s politics. This data show that high interaction rates and active uploads indicate active online conversations (Source CrowdTangle Team [2021]) Four quadrants of radicalisation (Adapted from El-Muhammady [2020])

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LIST OF FIGURES

Fig. 8.2 Fig. 8.3

Three stages of online recruitment employed by violent extremist groups in Malaysia Statistics of arrests for terrorism-related offences, 2013–2021 (Counter-Terrorism Division 2021)

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List of Tables

Table 2.1 Table 2.2

Table 8.1 Table 8.2 Table 8.3

Patterns of legal disputes over native customary rights A list of some significant Facebook groups and pages related to NCR, land and deforestation in Sarawak. Number of members and followers correct as of 10 January 2022 Four quadrants of radicalisation Terrorism offences, applicable laws and punishments in Malaysia Offences, laws and jurisdictions

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CHAPTER 1

Introduction Benjamin YH Loh and James Chin

Introduction In 2020, the novel coronavirus disease (COVID-19) pandemic exposed flaws in our contemporary social structures, leaving us to bear witness to the collapse of political leadership, the start of initial panic, the need for social responsibility versus individual agency and minority welfare. This was no different in Malaysia, where extensive lockdowns meant to “flatten the curve” revealed gaps between the mainstream and oftignored or overlooked sections of society. A clear example occurred in late March, where a surge of complaints from members of civil societies emerged, outraged that they were prevented from conducting outreach

B. YH Loh (B) School of Media and Communication, Taylor’s University, Subang Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia e-mail: [email protected] J. Chin School of Social Sciences, University of Tasmania, Sandy Bay, Tasmania, Australia

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_1

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welfare activities to support the high number of homeless and impoverished residents nationwide. At a broader level, after weeks of lockdowns, many communities still lacked access to basic necessities such as food and shelter. The lockdowns had a secondary effect on those who lived on the margins—many in the informal sector were without daily or casual work, lacking access to non-governmental services that they were so dependent on. While more privileged Malaysians adapted to the “new normal” of working from home, supported by varying degrees of government benefits (such as loan moratoriums and cash handouts), significant invisible minorities were left to fend for themselves with little recourse to aid. They were not only powerless in the face of a nationwide pandemic, but more importantly, their pleas for help were not heard because they were often excluded from media platforms, thus failing to reach out to a wider audience. In developing countries, the emergence of social media does not necessarily mean empowerment for minorities or the marginalised in the digital age, who can still just as easily be ignored by society and those in power. The wide reach of social media simply provides other tools for minorities and the marginalised to be heard—but to actually be heard, they have to use these tools in certain ways and contexts. Social media, as with the internet in general, is doubled-edged: it can be used for empowerment and just as easily for the further marginalisation of groups that are already struggling to be heard. These margins are ever-present throughout Malaysia, divided along the politics of race and religion since independence in 1957, omnipresent in all layers of society, including on social media. Traditionally, groups and intra-groups are included or excluded according to these broad identities, but these are merely external layers. Within these groups are further divisions by region, class, sexual orientation, education, rural-urban location and even tribal affiliation. In many cases, these existing layers of division are further exacerbated by social media. Although the widespread use of social media in Malaysia is a relatively new phenomenon (only about a decade old), it is now regarded as the de facto collective voice of many groups and communities, the default engine for those under 30 years old to reach out to each other or to simply look for information. Malaysians are among the highest users of social media in Southeast Asia (We are Social 2020) but also among the most closeted (i.e. using multiple identities or pseudonyms) due in part to government regulations and local political culture.

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From a legal perspective, the Malaysian government can employ a very strict approach to enforcing content on the internet. Under Section 233 of the Communications and Multimedia Act 1998 and the Sedition Act 1948, people convicted of posting false news or insulting comments against religion (especially Islam), political leaders and the royal institutions on social media can face a maximum fine of RM50,000 or up to a year’s jail term, or both. The government can also ask any Malaysian internet service provider to block any content deemed dangerous to “national security”, a wide and undefined term that thus allows the government to ban almost anything it can justify. In the past few years, there have been numerous cases of individuals who were charged and found guilty by the courts for social media posts against Islam and members of royal families. While most cases ended with fines, several individuals were sentenced to long prison sentences. In this environment, people who wish to comment on politics, royalty and Islam often do so under pseudonyms and by using largely anonymous accounts. Even so, some new legislation has been passed to hold platforms or website owners accountable for comments posted by visitors, resulting in self-censorship or the policing of users to ensure that they do not run afoul of the law by proxy. This situation in the social media space reflects the soft authoritarian nature of Malaysian society, which is arguably not a full democracy in practice. Again, social media’s impact on assisting minority and marginalised groups is minimal at best. Often, any attempts by minorities to seek an online presence can be easily overwhelmed or targeted by dominant majorities. Many oppressed groups, such as the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer (LGBTQ) community, are extraordinarily careful about representing themselves virtually given the generally conservative nature of Malaysian society—more hard-line Islamic groups, which apparently have a large following, often use their digital presence to further attack and marginalise them. The LGBTQ community itself is divided over utilising social media for advocacy, since many fear that this draws further unwanted attention and the wrath of conservatives. Compare the above situation with how international LGBTQ movements can use social media to support local networks, where simple acts of digital solidarity can provide visibility to and support for local communities, thus improving morale and lifting spirits. Social media can, therefore, attract both allies and problems for a community under siege. However, this narrative is often hijacked by conservative local Islamic groups, who interpret such

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support as a situation where global LGBTQ groups are helping their Malaysian brethren to promote “western liberal ideas”, or worse.1 Another example is that of indigenous peoples fighting for their rights, especially native land titles. Using social media and the digital public sphere would be ideal since they are often ignored by traditional media, but similarly, using social media entails its own sets of issues. Amplifying their grouses and telling the world about the injustices that they suffer from often lead to accusations of being unpatriotic and disloyal by airing domestic “dirty laundry” to the world. This in turn often leads to further negative perceptions of indigenous groups by mainstream society.

What This Book Is About The Malaysian landscape has gaps in governmental systems (both unintentional and intentional) that have greatly disenfranchised citizens, excluding those whom the state deems deviant, or plainly ignoring others for often arbitrary reasons. While these structures are manifested most clearly in physical spaces, they are also transplanted to digital ones—any mainstream online space reflects real-world structures. Unlike physical spaces, however, new media does offer more visibility and access, which can be utilised by minority communities to great effect. While some may focus on advocacy and activism to improve their community’s lives, others may engage in community- and identity-building. Regarding the digital world, studies and theories have emerged on how disadvantaged and marginalised communities utilise new platforms to navigate their social lives, although these phenomena remain vastly understudied. Groups such as the LGBTQ community, indigenous peoples and racial minorities have been the subjects of scholarly literature by researchers aiming to dissect whether or not these platforms have allowed for their increased visibility and mobility in exclusionary societies. For instance, a study on indigenous youths in Australia shows that this community, which faces great disadvantages particularly in education, uses social media as a form of strengthening their shared identity and connecting them with others in their community (Rice et al. 2016). As such, by equipping them with better ways of exploring and forming identities, a link with better achievement and participation in education and 1 For further reading on such polarisation of liberal/conservative polarisation, see Moustafa (2018).

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health outcomes is also suggested. Wilson et al. (2017) have also pointed out how social media has transformed the ways in which indigenous people have connected with each other, including on issues concerning political communication and social movements. Similar outcomes emerge from studies on the usage of social media in the LGBTQ community. In Indonesia, where the community is highly scrutinised and where some regions allow for public punishment, Mustangin (2018) states that social media platforms, especially applications designed specifically for this community, are used by participants to self-actualise, as theorised by Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Purpose is realised by (1) meeting new friends of the same sexual orientation and (2) feeling acknowledged and accepted through these friendships. One study on undocumented migrants in the United States captured how social media helps with their integration (Erdem 2018). Interviews with selected participants from this community reveal how social media is not just an essential tool for cultural learning, especially when it comes to the English language, but also for finding information about immigration procedures, tax issues and legal services. Additionally, respondents explained how social media addressed the need to connect them with their homelands and gain new connections with fellow migrants. Overall, these studies have mostly highlighted the usage of new media as a starting point for making lives better, especially where it concerns their identities and involves making connections with fellow community members. In Malaysia, existing literature on the usage of new media amongst marginalised communities is largely nascent. However, these bear many similarities with international findings. For instance, the local LGBTQ community has been found to utilise social media for communication and finding acceptance. The uses and gratifications theory and qualitative methods (e.g. interviews) have been employed in most of these works, where researchers attempt to study why this medium is deemed important to meet their need for gratification (Mokhtar et al. 2018; Tuah and Mazlan 2020). Mokhtar et al. (2018) found that social media sites such as Twitter and Facebook have been used to spread such movements to increase awareness and gain the attention of other members of this community. Social media is, therefore, considered a “haven” in this context. Studies on rural and lower-income communities have also emphasised the usage of new media to manage their socioeconomic activities. One issue that stands out is the “digital divide”, wherein improving such

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communities’ access to technology is argued to be the solution (Dawood et al. 2019). The reason lies in the importance of technology in influencing their socioeconomic conditions, since new media helps ease the information-seeking process and learning, while also becoming a medium for raising concerns (Dawood et al. 2019; Karim et al. 2016; Muhammad Ali and Mothar 2020; Jumin et al. 2017). Additionally, some studies of how such communities integrate new media, especially social media, into their businesses found that their income levels have tripled, since they can connect with more people on platforms such as Facebook and online marketing sites (Jumin et al. 2017; Muhammad Ali and Mothar 2020). E-businesses are seen as the way of the future, an essential route for marketers and social entrepreneurs. As such, existing local research is often based on ways of broaching the digital divide, exploring the positive effects of new media and its transformative power over communities which have been given access. Yet there is often little to no discussion about how new media affects the real-world issues that these communities face, and often fixates on the trivial and short-term gains of such basic access instead. The focus is often on describing routine or basic behaviours using new media, but rarely engaging at a deeper theoretical level.

Multiple Digital Publics This book seeks to enrich the discursive space of new media discourse in Malaysia by employing a more comprehensive approach to examining its interactions with various marginalised or oppressed communities. The digital divide scholarship often uses broad-based quantitative approaches to study the effects of technology on inequality, even though there is less nuance and often a sense of technological determinism in these arguments, which do not afford minorities or marginalised groups agency or social mobility (Prieger 2015). More recent studies, in a bizarre turn of events, present technology usage as an effect of their social status and which is often unable to effect change (Bartikowski et al. 2018). This is a stark contrast with the original conceptualisation of the digital divide, one that presumed the transformative power of media access to drive social mobility almost singlehandedly (Tsetsi and Rains 2017). Nevertheless, there is a push to diversify new media’s underlying paradigms, not just to examine the role of media technology on certain societies at the macro-level, but also to use more micro-approaches,

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especially regarding marginalised groups with unique circumstances and contexts which greatly affect how they make use of these technologies, which cannot be understood in purely statistical terms. Internet use has never been an isolated phenomenon, and if we continue to regard the use of the internet as separate from the social realities of disadvantaged user communities, then true empowerment of individuals in such groups via the use of the internet will never be gained. (Mehra et al. 2004, p. 799)

The digital divide scholarship needs a more involved approach to examine how technology can be used in specific contexts to benefit particular minority groups. This approach is useful for understanding the structural limitations constraining minority communities, but often lacks provisions for more in-depth examinations of how these structural constraints can be overcome. Therefore, this book seeks to dispel the utopian belief that access to new media can magically uplift or free marginalised groups. As demonstrated from the extant research on new media and other oppressed communities, the introduction of new technologies may often reinforce or perpetuate existing structures that already confine and oppress these communities offline. It can be difficult for them to enter the so-called mainstream media spaces since they lack the resources, access and opportunities that many often take for granted. The Habermasian public sphere is predicated on the existence of a political economy that precludes access to these spaces due to structural constraints, such as class, wealth and status. Despite the ostensible “open to all” nature of the original conception of the public sphere, Habermas was aware of the existence of different spheres limited by class structures. Many new public sphere proponents ignored these differences, and instead celebrated the transformative power of the seemingly borderless internet without interrogating societal structures that would still limit participation (Fuchs 2014). Similarly, a social media-based public sphere inherently contains many of the same constraints, but their new invisibility gives the illusion of a completely open public sphere. On the surface, it appears that the internet has brought about the promise of a more accessible digital public sphere, where anyone will theoretically be able to create their own spaces and find their own audiences, without the need to go through media gatekeepers and government controls. While this situation is still true, social media, as

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the primary platform, operates through many scaffolds and catalysts—i.e. algorithms and machine learning networks—to allow people to find relevant or “viral” content. While these are thought to be purely objective in terms of organising and curating content, they are still programmed and managed by humans, who in turn incorporate their own biases and prejudices into these frameworks. It is, therefore, fallacious to assume that a digital and artificial intelligence-powered internet is more democratic than physical spaces. The digital public sphere is reduced further in authoritarian countries, where media systems constrain public sphere deliberations due to the propagandic approaches of local media (Dehgan, qtd in Shao and Wang 2017). Social media is not ideal for supporting a public sphere due to selective exposure and biased information control (Liu and Weber, qtd ibid.). Despite China’s limited social media spaces, operating in parallel with a public sphere that is heavily policed and restricted, multiple publics can still emerge, where people can find their own spaces and create their own agency through social media by contravening or working around state limitations (Shao and Wang 2017). Even as the government heavily policies and conducts surveillance, the Chinese public has found ways to build communities and a presence within these limitations. However, these leakages are only possible because of the erosion of state apparatuses of control to make way for more open market forces. Thus, new media is not oppressive in itself, but the approaches used by marginalised or oppressed communities will vary due to their oft-unique circumstances. These communities will develop novel and highly creative approaches to assist them in gaining visibility in mainstream spaces or carving out their own online enclaves to better support their needs. The following chapters present case studies of various minority communities and their customised approaches to using new media. In examining these interactions, our chapters will interrogate the negotiations or interactions taking place between the Malaysian mainstream and these disadvantaged communities. While some do take advantage of this access for advocacy and activism, others are comfortable with just supporting their own communities. We seek to understand how their identities are affected or effected by new media—do these communities evolve and “modernise” through new media usage or do they restore or strengthen more traditional values and identities instead? New media, social media in particular, leads to the creation of multiple digital publics where people develop multiple identities based on the

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spaces which they now occupy. For those operating in the mainstream, this is often a negotiation between showing a professional and a personal side. But for those in the margins, this effort can involve far more layered distinctions, since people will consider hiding various parts of their identities that are different or simply not accepted to better integrate with society at large. Negotiating these multiple publics on social media is a challenge for everyone in this digital age, but it is particularly monumental for those who do not fit mainstream ideals. It is of the utmost importance that scholarship is produced to highlight the richness of society and indicate that even if one does not belong to the mainstream, there are still other open avenues. While we were only able to examine seven Malaysian communities which are just finding their own digital spaces, we believe that there are many others out there doing the same thing. We hope that these case studies can inspire other marginalised communities to work with new media—while they may not yet be able to break their chains of oppression, they can begin by building digital communities around themselves instead.

The Chapters The chapters of this book are divided into three different sections based on the types of communities being presented. The first focusses on indigenous communities, which contrary to the wording of the constitution are often excluded or marginalised despite being classified as among the indigenous Bumiputera (“sons of the soil”). Despite their indigeneity, these groups are often excluded from the dominant Malay community (the current parameters of this term are fairly recently constructions in the Malaysian context)2 and are thus still left out of many mainstream spaces. As such, indigenous communities take to new media to raise awareness of and advocate for support in their struggles with the state. Nuurrianti Jalli and James Chin discuss the methods and strategies employed by Sarawak’s indigenous groups in using cyberspace to fight for their native land titles or Native Customary Rights. Utilising social media, primarily Facebook, as their main avenue for activism, these groups can educate local communities and seek political support from global audiences. At

2 For an example of the constructed-ness of “Malayness”, it is worth referring to Charles Hirschman (1986).

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the same time, social media allows them to highlight the corrupt political system in Sarawak which led to the non-recognition of their native land titles, as consistent with the social media activism often undertaken by many indigenous groups around the world. Without social media, Sarawak’s indigenous groups would be much less visible and more isolated in terms of outreach. As for the highly marginalised Orang Asli community, often stereotyped as being backwards, rural and opting to reject modernity for a more “traditional indigenous lifestyle”, the examination of a by-election for a parliamentary seat among the largest Orang Asli population by Benjamin YH Loh and Rusaslina Idrus unpacks how online discussions and media representations are tinged with generalisations, misconceptions and an overarching sense of Othering. Despite this situation, Orang Asli communities have created their own virtual spaces where they are free to engage with and discuss issues amongst themselves. Instead of deciding between integration and activism, the communities instead take advantage of the open nature of new media to form digital enclaves which support and reinforce their own communities’ identities, free from the interference of an apathetic mainstream society. The second section examines irregular migrants, one of the most oppressed communities of Malaysia. Their members are highly vilified by Malaysian society, having little or no access to basic infrastructure and social services due to their irregular status, while being often blamed for many social issues. Yet these communities have found gaps in the structural restrictions imposed upon them and gained agency through new media. These chapters offer brief insights into the glimmers of hope enabled by new media and the incredibly novel and unique approaches employed for advocacy or identity reinforcement. The first chapter explores how irregular migrants in Sabah reclaim agency in their daily lives. Vilashini Somiah provides a fascinating exploration of how young adults who are otherwise ostracised by locals and excluded from many social spaces engage in multiple online romances using digital avatars—a practice often stigmatised as “catfishing”. The act of performing an alternative digital life serves as a means of taking control of their personal narratives, which they have little to no agency over in regular life. This chapter unpacks the position of such online romances within the context of tenuous daily routines and the relief that they provide.

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The next chapter focusses on a highly contentious issue in Malaysia during the pandemic. Nursyazwani and Aslam Abd Jalil examine the precarious position that Rohingya refugees occupied within Malaysia at this time. Given their tenuous and ambiguous status as refugees, the group was widely attacked and blamed for exacerbating the pandemic. Possibly the most disenfranchised community in the whole country, its members took to social media to engage in a severely antagonistic political space, seeking to regain control of their narrative, correct misconceptions and right the many wrongs levelled against them. The third and final section examines the plights of “Othered” minorities. These include both recognised minorities neglected by the state and deviant groups (as defined by the state) forced towards the fringes. These chapters will examine the structural factors that severely limit and constrain these communities, and how new media serves as a means of overcoming them. Public engagement is a negotiated affair, fraught with obstacles and dangers which have resulted in specialised behaviours and actions to manage their visibility and curate how they are represented to the general public and state authorities. Despite being recognised as one of the “main three races”, segments of the Indian community are bereft of many benefits and opportunities. The eponymous estate Indians seem to live in near-serfdom, often denied resources and education, thus impacting their social mobility. A glimmer of hope emerged briefly in early 2020 via a YouTube channel by an Indian couple, which called themselves “SuguPavithra” online. Shanthi Thambiah and Benjamin YH Loh present a case study of their rise and fall, where their channel grew to prominence and captured the hearts of the Malaysian public through endearing cooking videos. Lauded by many as being true Malaysians since their content was catered towards the ethnic Malay viewing demographic, their rapid fall from grace brought back many negative connotations of being estate Indians. Social mobility achieved through social media stardom can be easily erased once public opinion sours and old stereotypes re-emerge. Often attacked by religious conservatives, the LGBTQ community lives a troubled existence. As such, they have had to utilise various means of self-organisation and to survive as illicit communities. Collin anak Jerome discusses how members of the community negotiate their identities in different online spaces. Based on their individual contexts and challenges, these individuals often negotiate varying degrees of “onlineness” that influence the strategies employed in curating their online presence.

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The final chapter explores Islamic radicalism in Malaysian cyberspace. Ahmad El-Muhammady expertly traces how these radical groups use cyberspace and social media as instruments for the growth of extremist discourse. A recent study found that 83% of militant detainees charged under terrorism laws in Malaysia relied on social media platforms to access materials and establish virtual networks with likeminded individuals. The chapter discusses this issue from the aspects of: (1) the interplay between radicalisation and extremist discourse, particularly violent extremism; (2) the linkages between social media and cyberspace with democracy and postmodern discourse; and (3) the manifestation of violent extremism groups online by highlighting three growing threats based on religious, political and health-oriented radicalisation. This book merely offers a sampling of many other microcosms that can only exist due to new media. These case studies highlight the fact that despite their smaller size and stature, users can carve out sections of virtual spaces for themselves to support and build their own communities. While many may learn from each other, none are identical since the interactions between communities and new media evolve and shape the broader identity of a community in a variety of ways. Going against the common notion that technology overrides tradition, in this context, new media appears to reinforce community identities and, in some cases, catalyses social transformations by disrupting existing social structures. We hope that by the end of this book, readers will have a greater understanding of and appreciation for the unexpected power of social media as a novel tool affording new forms of agency to marginalised groups.

References Bartikowski, B., Laroche, M., Jamal, A., & Yang, Z. (2018). The Type-ofInternet-Access Digital Divide and the Well-Being of Ethnic Minority and Majority Consumers: A Multi-Country Investigation. Journal of Business Research, 82, 373–380. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jbusres.2017.05.033 Dawood, S.R.S., Ghazali, S., & Samat, N. (2019). Digital Divide and Poverty Eradication in the Rural Region of the Peninsular Malaysia. Indonesian Journal of Geography, 51(2), 172–182. https://doi.org/10.22146/ijg.37758 Digital 2020. (2020). We Are Social. Retrieved April 9, 2022, from https://wea resocial.com/us/blog/2020/01/digital-2020-us/ Erdem, B. (2018). How Can Social Media be Helpful for Immigrants to Integrate Society in the US. European Journal of Multidisciplinary Studies, 3(3), 74–79.

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Fuchs, C. (2014). Social Media and the Public Sphere. Triple C, 12(1), 57–101. https://doi.org/10.31269/triplec.v12i1.552 Hirschman, C. (1986). The Making of Race in Colonial Malaya: Political Economy and Racial Ideology. Sociological Forum, 1, 330–360. Jumin, J., Ijab, M.T., & Zaman, H.B. (2017). An Integrated Social Media Trading Platform for B40 Social Media Entrepreneurship [Conference Paper]. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-70010-6_11 Karim, H.A., Mariappan, K., Peters, D., Salleh, S., Jumrah, M.H., & Jafar, A. (2016). Local- Global Media Images: Mediating Notions of Hope and Change Among Rural Youths in Sabah. Malaysian Journal of Communication, 32(2), 202–233. Mehra, B., Merkel, C., & Bishop, A.P. (2004). The Internet for Empowerment of Minority and Marginalized Users. New Media & Society, 6(6), 781–802. https://doi.org/10.1177/146144804047513 Mokhtar, M.F., Wan Sukeri, W.A.E.D., & Latiff, Z. (2018, April 14–16). Social Media in Propagating Influence on Spreading LGBT Movements in Malaysia [Conference Paper]. The Proceeding of the 5th Conference on Communication, Culture and Media Studies, Yogyakarta. Retrieved April 9, 2022, from https://journal.uii.ac.id/CCCMS/article/view/12637/9124 Moustafa, T. (2018). Constituting Religion: Islam, Liberal Rights, and the Malaysian State. Cambridge University Press. Muhammad Ali, M.N., & Mothar, N.M. (2020). Discourses on Twitter Contribute to the Concept of Resilience in the LGBT Community in Malaysia. ESTEEM Journal of Social Sciences and Humanities, 5, 27–47. Mustangin. (2018). Social Media Among Homosexuals: A New Era of Gay Life in the Age of Technology. Masyarakat, Kebudayaan dan Politik, 31(4), 410– 417. https://doi.org/10.20473/mkp.V31I42018 Prieger, J. (2015). The Broadband Digital Divide and the Benefits of Mobile Broadband for Minorities. Journal of Economic Inequality, 13(3), 373–400. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10888-015-9296-0 Rice, E.S., Haynes, E., Royce, P., & Thompson, S.C. (2016). Social Media and Digital Technology Use Among Indigenous Young People in Australia: A Literature Review. International Journal for Equity in Health, 15(81). https://doi.org/10.1186/s12939-016-0366-0 Shao, P., & Wang, Y. (2017). How Does Social Media Change Chinese Political Culture? The Formation of Fragmentized Public Sphere. Telematics and Informatics, 34(3), 694–704. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tele.2016.05.018 Tsetsi, E., & Rains, S.A. (2017). Smartphone Internet Access and Use: Extending the Digital Divide and Usage Gap. Mobile Media & Communication, 5(3), 239–255. https://doi.org/10.1177/2050157917708329

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Tuah, K.M., & Mazlan, U.S. (2020). Twitter as Safe Space for Self-Disclosure Among Malaysian LGBTQ Youths. Malaysian Journal of Communication, 36(1), 436–448. https://doi.org/10.17576/JKMJC-2020-3601-25 Wilson, A., Carlson, B., & Sciascia, A. (2017). Reterritorialising Social Media: Indigenous People Rise Up. Australasian Journal of Information Systems, 21. https://doi.org/10.3127/ajis.v21i0.1591

Benjamin YH Loh is a senior lecturer at the School of Media and Communication, Taylor’s University. He is a media scholar who employs digital ethnography in studying emergent cultures and the digital public sphere. Having received his doctorate in communications and new media from the National University of Singapore, he focusses on the confluence between technology and society, with a particular focus on minority and marginalised communities. He co-edited a book on the 2020 Sabah state elections, Sabah from the Ground: The 2020 Elections and the Politics of Survival. James Chin is a professor of Asian Studies at the University of Tasmania. He was the inaugural director of the Asia Institute Tasmania and the founding head of the School of Arts and Social Sciences of the Malaysian campus of Monash University. He is also a senior fellow at the Jeffrey Cheah Institute on Southeast Asia, and was a senior visiting fellow at Singapore’s Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (now the ISEAS–Yusof Ishak Institute). He is widely regarded as a leading scholar of contemporary Malaysian politics, especially on Sabah and Sarawak.

PART I

Indigenous Rights and Representation

CHAPTER 2

Native Customary Rights Land Titles and Thwarting Deforestation: Digital Acts of Resistance Among Sarawak’s Indigenous Peoples Nuurrianti Jalli and James Chin

Introduction The advent of digital media, which includes social media platforms such as Facebook, has increased the visibility of “Othered” indigenous peoples. This chapter is a short exploration of how the indigenous peoples of Sarawak (specifically the Dayak community in this chapter) are using Facebook as their digital platform of choice to fight for native land titles— i.e. their Native Customary Rights (NCR) lands—and to resist logging

N. Jalli Northern State University, Aberdeen, SD, USA J. Chin (B) School of Social Sciences, University of Tasmania, Sandy Bay, Tasmania, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_2

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companies encroaching upon these lands, leading to massive deforestation and the loss of wildlife habitats. This chapter provides an overview of how indigenous groups in Sarawak utilise Facebook as a space for resistance, advocacy and political interaction. While there have been studies on activism and social media, there are relatively few studies with a specific focus on such indigenous activism in Sarawak. Through an ethnographic study and data analysis of several Facebook groups from 2019 to 2020, we found that Facebook allows group members to actively engage in critical discourse on local issues, including those pertaining to the right to native customary lands and deforestation. Digital activism has enabled the Dayak community to highlight their plights and concerns, not only among members of the local community but also to global audiences. Through the lens of public sphere theory, we argue that the adoption of social media as a space for social discourse guarantees interactivity at both local and global levels.

Overview: Politics or Native Land Titles? Excessive forest degradation and NCR land issues in Sarawak are complex, both of which are often linked to Sarawak’s politics and government policies which develop land for economic exploitation (Bulan 2006; Cramb and Sujang 2011). Many of the issues relating to land date back to the colonial era, where land tenures and systems were put in place with little consultation of native communities and understandings of customary land tenure systems. This was not a unique problem to Sarawak, of course, and was in fact the standard practice when European powers imposed their land systems on conquered territory. When Sarawak became a part of Malaysia in 1963, the land code used during the Brooke era remained unchanged and was simply carried forward into the post-independence era. Since the 1980s, the lack of a policy to protect indigenous rights and poor land surveillance have contributed to worsening deforestation in the region, mainly due to activities such as industrial logging, the development of large-scale commercial oil palm plantations, the expansion of agribusinesses as well as the construction of large dams and roads. Other scholars see the NCR issue as a primarily political one (Chin 2017; Yap 2020). From this perspective, powerful politicians who control the state use the contemporary legal structure to issue permits to logging and

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plantation companies, which serve as a major source of economic rentseeking (Chin 2017; Colchester 1993). Forest degradation and native land-grabbing in Sarawak are also seen by scholars and observers as topics which have to be addressed in tandem and are indeed often collectively championed by local activists (Ichikawa 2007). According to Ichikawa (2007), for the Iban, one of the Dayak people, the allocation of virgin forests as NCR land began more than a century ago. However, due to the increased demand for economic activities by the state government, commercial logging began in the 1960s, followed by the vast development of oil palm plantations and the clearing of virgin forests from the 1980s onwards. This increased development took away NCR land, thus pushing out indigenous communities, including the Dayak. Prior to European arrival, NCR land served the indigenous communities as a communal space to ensure their safety and livelihoods as well as being a place for community governance by indigenous leaders. Control over NCR land also signifies tribal power, and by denying rights to land, the state government indirectly displaces their traditional practices and beliefs. Ngidang (2002, p. 158) posits that NCR land defines the rules and regulations which regulate activities and maintain order in humanland relations as well as the social interactions involving the protection, utilisation and management of mutual resources for the common good. The traditional ownership of NCR land is passed down from generation to generation, and the understanding of how land should be used is oftentimes only understood by natives, as influenced by their indigenous customs and belief systems. Such informal land acquisition and the intergenerational transfer of ownership are usually recorded informally within communities based on oral information (Manaf et al. 2017). The lack of documentation needed to prove land transfer has resulted in problems when these communities engaged in legal battles with the state government and large corporations. These practices existed long before Sarawak came under the Brunei Sultanate’s governance, and eventually continued until James Brooke emerged as the so-called White Rajah of Sarawak in 1841 (Pringle 2010). When Sarawak came under the Brooke family’s suzerainty, the White Rajah purposely created a dualistic economy, focussing more on commercial agriculture and mining for economic sustainability than on the subsistence economy, which was geared towards the indigenous peoples (Ngidang 2005).

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This deliberate duality reflected a respect for and acknowledgement of Sarawak’s indigenous communities at that time. Observers and critics view the current dispute over NCR land as a sign of negligence on the part of the post-independence government—i.e. failing to form a holistic policy that considers the native understanding of land ownership and use. While some policies are deemed as being systemically discriminatory against indigenous landowners, this is particularly so among the Iban, who inherited vast tracts of NCR land from their pioneering ancestors yet could not commercially develop them. The state government failed to recognise indigenous ownerships and the socioeconomic reasons which led to the indigenous peoples not having enough financial resources to develop their land. Additionally, according to NCR landowners, the state government has also made it difficult for indigenous peoples to develop land commercially—only private companies are permitted to develop land nowadays (Ngidang 2002). This systemic problem eventually became one of the contributing factors to high levels of poverty among indigenous communities, including the Iban. Again, we stress that NCR land ownership is integral to preserving their indigenous identities and spiritualities. This means that customary land is not only important to the economy and politics of society, but also invaluable in spiritual and ritualistic contexts. Therefore, it is not surprising if customary land is seen as a continuation of indigenous peoples’ identities. Today, there are hundreds of NCR land disputes waiting to be heard by the courts, as more and more of Sarawak’s indigenous communities challenge the state government on land ownership issues (Bernama 2018; Karulus and Askandar 2020).

NCR Land The Legal Dimension The indigenous communities define their lands in three ways. Generally, pemakai menoa 1 can be understood as the entire territorial domain, including rivers, longhouse sites and cemeteries. Its boundaries are defined in an almost similar manner across the various native communities of Sarawak. For example, for the Bidayuh, pemakai menoa are set 1 Alternatively known as pemakai menua—the Iban in the northern region of Sarawak tend to replace the “o” sound with “u”, in contrast to their southern counterparts.

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according to landscape characteristics such as mountains, ridges, rivers, rocks or other signs such as the locations of trees and specific plants. Meanwhile, pulau galau refers to a communal primary forest reserve, while temuda refers to cleared and cultivated land. Only the Penan are a truly nomadic ethnic group, while other groups are traditionally seminomadic—when they periodically move to new land, their pemakai menoa move along with them (Fig. 2.1). These concepts have generally been respected throughout the centuries, even under foreign rulers such as the Brooke family. The Brookes’ recognition of the existence of a system of law based on native customs already featured in the earliest Land Orders of 1920 (Bulan

Fig. 2.1 Illustrating the types of territorial domains

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2019).2 Upon Sarawak’s cession to the United Kingdom by the last White Rajah in 1946 (Order No. C-20 in the Sarawak Government Gazette), Sarawak’s English common law and doctrines of equity were received through the Application of Laws Ordinance 1949 (Ordinance No. 27 of 1949) by its new rulers (ibid.). This change eventually led to the creation of a new system of classifying land ownership, which was later laid out in the 1958 Land Code. Its enactment replaced other landrelated regulations, including the Land Ordinance 1948, Land Settlement Ordinance 1948, Land (Classification) Ordinance 1948, Dealings in Land (Validation) Ordinance 1952 and the rules made thereunder (Malanjum 2020). Until today, the 1958 Land Code remains the primary land law of Sarawak. While its basic premise is that all untitled land in Sarawak belongs to the state, the code recognises that indigenous peoples have NCR to land and can therefore claim title rights under the law. For example, Section 5 states that the methods by which native customary rights may be acquired are – a) the felling of virgin jungle and the occupation of the land a hereby cleared; b) the planting of land with fruit trees; c) the occupation or cultivation of land; d) the use of land for a burial ground or shrine; e) the use of land of any class for rights of away or f) any other lawful method.

This section essentially describes how indigenous communities can claim the right to native lands if they can prove that they lived and practised their lifestyles there. The caveat is that such claims need to predate 1958, hence the difficulties in trying to prove that there had already been regular use of the disputed land prior to that date. Hence, if indigenous communities’ occupancy started after 1958, the native people would not be able to claim any rights according to the Code. In 2017, however, the deputy chief minister of Sarawak, Douglas Uggah Embas, stated that despite the existing definition in the 1958 Land Code, the state government would work on an improved definition of native territorial domains due to this loophole, specifically for pemakai menoa and pulau galau (Dayak Daily 2017). The improved definitions would then be a part of

2 One of the earliest records of native land ownership in Sarawak was written in 1840, where James Brooke recognised the right to the jungle around native longhouses (Malanjum 2020).

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the 1958 Land Code (Amendment) Bill 2018, where a more inclusive term, “native territorial domain”, was adopted to replace pemakai menoa and pulau galau, allegedly because practices relating to native territorial domains were not limited only to the Iban, but also all other indigenous communities in Sarawak (Azima et al. 2015). However, the amendment also limits claims to only 1,000 hectares, as was the case with the original Section 6A(2). This allocation may be substantially less than the actual area customarily and historically occupied, inhabited, used or enjoyed by native communities, thus becoming another reason for disputes with and mistrust of the state government by the many claimants. The 1958 Land Code To reiterate, occupying native lands is permitted, provided that indigenous communities can prove that they have lived and practised their lifestyles on these lands prior to the 1958 Land Code’s introduction. However, many legal disputes often stemmed from a lack of written documentation provided by indigenous communities, since their histories had always been narrated orally. Once in court, native claimants found it hard or even impossible to prove that their lands, shrines, graveyards or farms actually belonged to them, having long been encroached upon by timber or oil palm companies despite actually being NCR land used by the claimants prior to 1958. The other point of contention is that the Code’s conception of land rights does not match the indigenous understanding of land use. Observers familiar with the issue posit that such indigenous land rights transcend the places where indigenous peoples live, including where they cultivate their crops, forage for food and hunt animals (Nanda and Yap 2019). According to Joshua Baru, a lawyer familiar with NCR land disputes, many court cases were fought to define NCR land boundaries, including the high-profile T.R. Sandah case (TR Sandah ak Tabau & Ors v. Director of Forest Sarawak & Anor and Other Appeals ) (ibid.). While the Iban communities involved in this case tried to claim their rights to NCR land using pemakai menoa, the court ruled that this concept was not recognised by the 1958 Land Code or other state legislation. Therefore, the Iban claimants could not fight for rights to their native lands (ibid.) (Fig. 2.2). However, proving claims to a piece of land is not the only major problem experienced by Sarawak’s indigenous groups. Many have also

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Fig. 2.2 A photograph shared on the NCR Land Rights Facebook group on 18 June 2019 by one of the members. After a Google reverse image search, we found that the photo first appeared in the Borneo Post on 21 December 2016, following the Federal Court’s ruling that NCR land could not be obtained through the pemakai menoa or pulau galau systems. In such cases, an inability to prove claims over their land, therefore, means that it is considered unoccupied and automatically belongs to the state (Ngidang 2002) (Source Borneo Post)

found it challenging to hold onto ownership. Section 3(A) lays out how their NCR can simply be cancelled by the “direction of the minister”, and this section led to countless land disputes over the years, many of them emerging after the government leased out their land to corporate development projects. For Sarawak, the three most dominant reasons for native land rights disputes are as follows: (1) land is taken by timber, oil palm or quarry companies after being issued operating licences by the state government; (2) land encroachment for development by third parties or developers; and (3) indigenous peoples not being aware that their lands had been claimed by others—enabled by the government issuing a specific license or provisional lease over a piece of land—until it was too late. Disputes often involved indigenous communities living in very rural areas with limited

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information about land ownership or development plans. Based on data from Global Forest Watch (2020), deforestation in Sarawak has increased drastically over the years, mainly due to the timber and oil palm industries as well as mega projects such as dam construction (Table 2.1). Oftentimes, indigenous communities lose their land claims to such development projects and end up resettled elsewhere. For example, when the Bakun Dam was built, some 10,000 people were displaced. Construction started in 1995 but was subjected to repeated delays for various reasons, including funding problems, conflicts between project partners and protests. The indigenous peoples living in the vicinity were relocated to Sungai Asap and placed together in a single settlement which was much smaller than their original land; hence, they did not have enough space to farm, hunt and fish, given that many people now shared resources and the Table 2.1 Patterns of legal disputes over native customary rights Reasons for disputes

Cases

NCR land legally acquired by timber, oil palm or quarry companies after the state-issued operating licences

A highly controversial case (TR Sandah ak Tabau & Ors v. Director of Forest Sarawak & Anor and Other Appeals ) involved a temporary lease granted by the state of Sarawak to Rosebay Enterprise Sdn Bhd, where the federal ruling was in favour of the state government Landowners from nine longhouses in Ulu Ngemah, Kanowit, lodged a complaint in 2019 that a private company had encroached upon their adat (customs) land for the commercial cultivation of coconut and oil palm without their permission Landowners from Marudi, Tinjar, Bakong, Batu Niah and Long Pilah, through Sahabat Alam Malaysia, lodged a formal complaint with the Human Rights Commission of Malaysia regarding encroachment upon their NCR land. The native landowners were purportedly unaware of this encroachment by a plantation corporation, which was operating under a license issued by the state government (Lim 2019)

Land encroachment for development by third parties or developers

Native and indigenous communities unaware that their lands were claimed by other parties

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small Asap River. Therefore, the resources needed to sustain their livelihoods decreased, meaning that the indigenous people of the Bakun area had to rely on other forms of income, a new reality that changed their lifestyles and resulted in poverty among these communities (Ngidang 2002). The Political Dimension As mentioned above, there is a political dimension to the NCR issue, since politicians who control the state use NCR land for economic rentseeking to enrich themselves and their cronies (Chin 2017). This can be easily done as outlined above, while proving NCR claims is extremely difficult because of the 1958 Land Code. The state receives tremendous pressure from timber and palm oil companies to issue licences, including temporary ones, for them to exploit land and resources (Global Witness 2013). The main reason for these attempts is because these lands contain valuable timber, often worth millions of dollars. After the timber is cleared out, the exposed land can be further exploited for oil palm plantations, which results in further profits (Cramb 2016). Companies such as the Samling Group are often linked to the state and engage in such practices—however, this multimillion-dollar company has continued to deny its connection to such corrupt practices over the years (“Samling” 2021; Cramb 2013). In almost all cases, only politically connected individuals and companies can lobby the state to issue them with the rights to disputed NCR land— in legal terms, these take the form of “provisional leases”—thus allowing them to harvest timber and establish plantations after the initial harvest (Cramb 2013). Such backdoor deals keep NCR claimants uninformed about the leases, who find out about them only when the leaseholders— i.e. the timber and oil palm companies—show up with their machinery and workers to fell the trees and clear the land. For example, the latest case brought to public attention after being widely covered by local media was the blockade led by the Penan community in the Baram region of northern Sarawak. Their leaders organised this protest to stop the Samling Group from clearing their NCR land, although the group claimed that it had been given permission to operate by the state government (“Penan Communities” 2021). In the past decade, there have been hundreds of lawsuits filed by NCR claimants against the state for the issuance of these leases (“Defending

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Territories” 2020), all of which have a very simple dimension that can be summed up as follows: does the state recognise the native understanding of the terms pemakai menoa and pulau galau? In Sarawak, the state’s solution is straightforward and long overdue, i.e. amending the 1958 Land Code to explicitly recognise these two concepts. Yet for the past half-century, the state government has systematically delayed implementing this reform despite numerous lawsuits (Cooke 2006), which is somewhat surprising since Sarawak’s indigenous peoples are strong supporters of the incumbent ruling coalition, Gabungan Parti Sarawak, which is itself part of the Barisan Nasional federal coalition. In fact, the Dayak indigenous population specifically accounts for about 40% of Sarawak’s population and is the majority population in one-third of the Sarawak State Assembly’s seats. More than 80% of Dayak-majority seats have gone to Barisan Nasional in every election since the 1980s. The only conclusion that one can draw about the inability of the Dayak community to resolve the NCR issue is that they are held back by divideand-rule politics and self-serving Dayak political leaders. In Sarawak, political power is held by a small group of Melanau and Malay-Muslims as well as Chinese business tycoons (Hazis 2012). Using a mixture of political coercion and money politics, they have ensured that the Dayak community is politically divided among all the major political parties in Sarawak (Chin 1996, 2019), thus preventing the Dayak populace from uniting under a single political party. On top of that, self-serving Dayak political leaders have mostly paid lip service to resolving the NCR land issue since the 1970s. Ultimately, however, they lack the political power to push for legislative change regarding the legal definitions of pemakai menoa and pulau galau.

Indigenous Peoples and Digital Activism Social networking is changing how indigenous communities communicate and connect at the local, state, national and even global levels. Facebook and other social media platforms aid these interactions and allow users to establish connexions across large distances and time zones, thus increasing social and political connectivity as well as their eventual impact. The power of social media to influence and foster indigenous activism is seen in multiple examples. In the United States (US), Twitter, Facebook and YouTube are actively used by indigenous activists to facilitate their

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causes and, at times, have successfully catapulted their plights to global media. Perhaps most notably, through integrated grassroots activism both online and offline, the Sioux people of North Dakota successfully protested the construction of the Dakota Access Pipeline, which would have run through their native homelands (Wilson et al. 2017). In March 2020, the US federal court eventually struck down the pipeline permits and ordered a comprehensive environmental review after the court found that the US Army Corps’ existing permits violated the National Environmental Policy Act (Lakhani 2020). Meanwhile, in Australia, aboriginal activist Sam Cook created a massive online movement through the strategic use of the Twitter hashtag “#SOSBLAKAUSTRALIA”3 —thus drawing attention to the closure of 150 rural aboriginal communities (Carlson and Frazer 2016). Although the campaign was initiated in a rural community in Western Australia, the strategic use of social media platforms and celebrity endorsements allowed it to gain extensive traction and over 50,000 followers, reaching over one million people worldwide in only 18 days (Dreher et al. 2016). For Sarawak’s indigenous peoples, social media sites serve as ideal platforms to empower the figuratively voiceless since there is an absence of gatekeeping and fewer restrictions in place than getting their opinions heard on mainstream media (Tay 2017; Skinner 2010). Due to the contrast between the narratives of NCR land claimants and that of the state’s land management, indigenous peoples rely significantly on the internet to share their plight with the public (Tay 2017). From our observation of Facebook groups, although indigenous peoples are aware of how sensitive comments made online could land users with heavy punishment under Malaysian law—namely the Communications and Multimedia Act 1998 and the Sedition Act 1958—social media offers them the opportunity to “hide” under the blanket of anonymity while being able to criticise the state government over its approach to NCR land issues. Increased ownership of mobile devices among the indigenous communities allows them to exercise their democratic rights by creating content and sharing their opinions on issues concerning their communities. Social media has been argued to enable people of various backgrounds to share a common space for discursive conversations (Jalli 2017; Schäfer

3 See https://www.facebook.com/sosblakaustralia/.

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2015; Fuchs 2014; Shirky 2011). The original idea of the public sphere, in Jürgen Habermas’s (1991) conception, suggests that if something is public, it is open to all since it should be a space where society can engage in critical public debate. Despite the argument that social media cannot create a genuine public space for public dialogue (Castells 2011) since the platform is to a certain extent elitist (Johannessen et al. 2016)—i.e. online discourse can only happen for those with access to the internet and social media—some scholars believe that a reconstruction of the definition of a public sphere is crucial to fit the contemporary context (Bennett and Segerberg 2012; Burgess and Green 2018). Online platforms, despite their exclusive disposition, are still being used by a majority of people for information-sharing in the current environment (Castells 2011). In the case of Sarawak’s indigenous activism and social media, particularly in the context of this chapter, we believe that social media serves as a space for contestation, thus enabling indigenous peoples, especially the Dayak, to exchange information, opinions and ideas with those from beyond their geographical area. Not only can native peoples connect with their local communities, but their causes can also attract attention from international audiences, particularly activists interested in their plight. Our view on social media, as an enabler of global interactions for indigenous peoples, is not new. Other scholars studying communities across the world share a similar opinion. For example, Latimore et al. (2017), in their research into the indigenous public sphere in Australia, argue that the advancement of information and communication technology as well as social media platforms provide new opportunities for mass self-communication (see also Castells 2009, 2011). Through the establishment of peer-to-peer networks4 for collective, networked media initiatives, the emergent public sphere leverages the popularity of social media platforms, thus providing indigenous peoples with a chance to become more active at voicing their opinions on ongoing sociopolitical issues affecting their communities. Digital activism among indigenous peoples in Sarawak is also undeniably facilitated by the development of technology, thus allowing the greater reach of content which transcends national borders. Barney (2004) suggests that in many instances, local protest initiatives have created collaborations not only with national but also global activist networks, particularly those fighting 4 A network of personal computers acting as both clients and servers, so that users can exchange files and emails directly with every other computer on the network.

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against the expansion of plantation production. For Sarawak’s indigenous peoples, social media is being deployed to reach out to locals and gather a global audience of allies in support of the development of both indigenous and climate justice. For example, in the 2021 abovementioned Baram blockade, the initiative was supported not only by local NCR land activists but also by international non-governmental organisations, including the Bruno Manser Fonds (“Penan Communities” 2021), an organisation based in Basel, Switzerland. Among the mainstream social media platforms, Facebook is the leading site for indigenous political contestations, particularly for the Dayak community (Jalli and Sualman 2020). See, for example, Facebook groups such as NCR Sarawak, NCR Land Defenders and Dayak dan Politik Semasa, which contain posts predominantly written in the Iban language, rather than Malay- and English-language content. In our investigation into the use of social media platforms among the Dayak community for sharing information about NCR issues, postings on Twitter are insignificant in comparison. Using CrowdTangle (a public insights tool owned and operated by Facebook) and Netlytic (a cloud-based text and social network analyser), we performed keyword and hashtag searches5 on both platforms to determine which was more actively used to discuss issues related to native land titles and NCR disputes. After a thorough data cleaning exercise, we saw about 24,000 original posts being uploaded onto public groups and pages on Facebook in 2019 and 2020, while on Twitter, only 3,789 tweets were collected, 789 of which was “retweeted” content (Table 2.2). Based on our yearlong “netnographic” work on Facebook observing interactions between group members, we noticed that such interactions open a space for discourse and, at times, have led to the creation of organised events. For example, some individuals on the NCR Land Facebook group, through a discussion on Bruno Manser,6 the deceased Swiss environmental activist who used to live with the Penan, organised a gettogether in Miri for further discussion on the topic. Based on the number 5 e.g. “NCR Sarawak”, “pemakai menoa”, “pemakai menua”, “deforestation Sarawak”, “palm oil Sarawak”, #NCRSarawak, #pemakaimenoa, and #pemakaimenua. 6 Presumed dead in 2005, Manser was known for organising series of blockades against timber companies in Sarawak. Like many other critics, Manser believed that excessive timber logging and state corruption prevented the Penan from fully practising their nomadic lifestyles, since greedy corporations and government appropriated their homes.

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Table 2.2 A list of some significant Facebook groups and pages related to NCR, land and deforestation in Sarawak. Number of members and followers correct as of 10 January 2022 Group/page

Description

NCR Sarawak (public group)

A dedicated group discussing issues related to NCR land in Sarawak A dedicated group discussing issues related to NCR land in Sarawak. Critical comments about Gabungan Parti Sarawak can easily be found here A public group focussing on sociopolitical issues concerning the Dayak community in Sarawak. One key issue often discussed is NCR land-grabbing A non-profit organisation based in Berkeley, California, sponsored by the Earth Island Institute California. It aims to bring international attention to issues related to deforestation in Borneo An environmental conservation organisation based in Miri, Sarawak, aiming to build broad support by mobilising the public to speak up against the state government’s construction of new dams

NCR Land Defenders (private group)

Dayak dan Politik Semasa (public group)

The Borneo Project (public page)

Save Rivers (public page)

No. of members and followers 22,789

12,604

26,859

53,543

9,932

of people in the conversation, at least 12 discussants agreed to meet in June 2019 for a leisurely get-together to speak about Manser, whom the Penan regarded as Lakei Penan or a “Penan Man” for being a devoted champion of their rights, especially regarding protecting the forest lands upon which they relied for their livelihoods (Fig. 2.3). As suggested above, online conversations were not limited to the platform but could extend to offline gatherings. Facebook provides a public space for discussion and enables people, including the indigenous populace, to proactively network for a cause. In the context of

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Fig. 2.3 The total interactions in the NCR Land Rights group from 1 April 2019 to 1 April 2020. These exceeded 736,000, with 14,000 weekly interactions. There were about 14,000 total posts by group members during this period, with about 70% of the content related to NCR land disputes. Other content related to Sarawak’s politics. This data show that high interaction rates and active uploads indicate active online conversations (Source CrowdTangle Team [2021])

deforestation and NCR land issues, external entities included local authorities and politicians, but to a greater extent international organisations. We mentioned the Bruno Manser Fonds earlier, which in fact actively connects with native peoples both online and offline to get the latest on-the-ground information related to deforestation and the plight of the Penan. Ongoing dialogue on deforestation and NCR land disputes on social media also attract international media outlets, which now cover their stories more frequently than in the past. Al Jazeera, for example, released a short docuseries on deforestation in 2009, particularly pertaining to excessive logging and the unsustainable palm oil industry in Sarawak, building on both online and offline information obtained from native peoples.

Indigenous Activism Going Forward For the native peoples of Sarawak, seeking their state government’s recognition of their inherent NCR rights requires running a continuous

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marathon. However, social media enables them to strategically utilise platforms, especially Facebook, to connect with the local community and reach out to international organisations to publicise their concerns for a global audience. Many digital activists see such social media platforms as the most powerful tool for three reasons. First, it allows them to provide a counter-narrative to the state’s version regarding their failure to prove the validity of their NCR claims, which more often than not does not portray the difficulties of providing legal proof of land use prior to 1958 or the complexities of oral traditions. In many instances, the state simply portrays natives as making unfounded claims, hoping for economic payoffs. Second, it allows these activists to politicise the NCR issue by showing how Sarawak’s political and business elites have benefited from the current land tenure system, which allows the state to issue leases to land even while under dispute. In a way, by politicising the issue, these online activists are hoping to create a new generation of activists who will carry on fighting for native land titles—thus online and offline activism come together to create greater advocacy. Third, it allows NCR activists to connect with like-minded activists outside Sarawak, thus projecting the NCR issue to a global stage. Native groups throughout Asia face similar battles with their governments, and thus networking via Facebook is a source of comradery and support among native land title activists. Being part of these groups can lead to powerful opportunities to state their case outside national borders. This chapter shows that Facebook groups and pages serve as public arenas for advocacy, thus providing spaces for political resistance and interaction while acknowledging that there are members of indigenous communities who remain excluded from online conversations due to multiple factors. There are still limited data on Internet use among indigenous communities, except for the Iban. Although there are other social media platforms, based on our data-trawling, conversations on deforestation and native land disputes are more often discussed on Facebook compared with others—at least for politically vocal indigenous peoples such as the Iban. Information shared on this platform expands the social influence of these public issues, thus initiating multi-sided conversations even with international entities and global media. The opportunities that social media can provide for indigenous groups are undeniably helpful for those interested in understanding their sociopolitical issues. With limited studies on indigenous activism on social media in the Sarawakian context

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available, this chapter hopefully provides some insights into how Facebook is specifically used by indigenous peoples, particularly the Dayak, to push forward their cause(s).

References “Defending Territories and Indigenous Peoples’ Rights.” (2020, December 11). Friends of the Earth International. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https:// www.foei.org/news/malaysia-defending-territories-indigenous-peoples-rights “Penan Communities Set Up Blockade.” (2021, October 7). Malaysiakini. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.malaysiakini.com/news/594553 “Samling Denies Stand Off.” (2021, October 21). Malaysiakini. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.malaysiakini.com/news/595156 Azima, A.M., Lyndon, N., & Akmal, M.S. (2015). Understanding of the Meaning of Native Customary Land (NCL) Boundaries and Ownership by the Bidayuh Community in Sarawak, Malaysia. Mediterranean Journal of Social Sciences, 6(5), 342. Barney, D. (2004). The Network Society. Polity. Bennett, W.L., & Segerberg, A. (2012). The Logic of Connective Action: Digital Media and the Personalization of Contentious Politics. Information, Communication & Society, 15(5), 739–768. Bulan, R. (2006). Native Customary Land: The Trust as a Device for Land Development in Sarawak. State, Communities and Forests in Contemporary Borneo, 1, 45. ———. (2019). The Civil Courts and Determination of Native Customary Land Rights: Merely Declaring or Making Laws? Borneo Research Journal, 13, 1– 23. Burgess, J., & Green, J. (2018). YouTube: Online Video and Participatory Culture. Wiley. Carlson, B., & Frazer, R. (2016). Indigenous Activism and Social Media: A Global Response to #SOSBLAKAUSTRALIA. In A. McCosker, S. Vivienne, & A. Johns (Eds.), Negotiating Digital Citizenship: Control, Contest and Culture (pp. 115–130). Rowman and Littlefield International. Castells, M. (2009). Communication Power. Oxford University Press. ———. (2011). The Rise of the Network Society (Vol. 12). Wiley. Chin, J. (1996). PBDS and Ethnicity in Sarawak Politics. Journal of Contemporary Asia, 26(4), 512–526. ———. (2017). The Politics of Native Titles in Sarawak. New Mandala. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.newmandala.org/politics-native-titles-sar awak/

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———. (2019). ‘Malay Muslim First’: The Politics of Bumiputeraism in East Malaysia. In S. Lemiere (Ed.), Illusions of Democracy: Malaysian Politics and People (pp. 201–220). Amsterdam University Press. Colchester, M. (1993). Pirates, Squatters and Poachers: The Political Ecology of Dispossession of the Native Peoples of Sarawak. The Political Ecology of Southeast Asian Forests: Transdisciplinary Discourses, 3(4/6), 158–179. Cooke, F.M. (2006). Expanding State Spaces Using “Idle” Native Customary Land in Sarawak. In F.M. Cooke (Ed.), State, Communities and Forests in Contemporary Borneo (pp. 25–44). Australian National University Press. Cramb, R. (2013). A Malaysian Land Grab? The Political Economy of Large-Scale Oil Palm [Land Deal Politics Initiative Working Paper]. ———. (2016). The Political Economy of Large-Scale Oil Palm Development in Sarawak. In R. Cramb (Ed.), The Oil Palm Complex: Smallholders, Agribusiness and the State in Indonesia and Malaysia (pp. 189–246). NUS Press. Cramb, R., & Sujang, P.S. (2011). “Shifting Ground”: Renegotiating Land Rights and Rural Livelihoods in Sarawak, Malaysia. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 52(2), 136–147. CrowdTangle Team. (2021). CrowdTangle. Facebook, Menlo Park, California, United States. List ID: 10213343. Dayak Daily. (2017). Sarawak to Only Have One Definition of pemakai menoa and pulau galau. Retrieved May 29, 2019, from https://dayakdaily.com/ swak-to-have-only-one-definition-for-pemakai-menoa-and-pulau-galau/ Dreher, T., McCallum, K., & Waller, L. (2016). Indigenous Voices and Mediatized Policy-Making in the Digital Age. Information, Communication & Society, 19(1), 23–39. Fuchs, C. (2014). Social Media and the Public Sphere. TripleC, 12(1), 57–101. Global Forest Watch. (2020). Malaysia Deforestation Rates & Statistics. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.globalforestwatch.org/dashboards/cou ntry/MYS/ Global Witness. (2013). Inside Malaysia’s Shadow State: Backroom Deals Driving the Destruction of Sarawak. Retrieved May 22, 2022, from https://cdn2.glo balwitness.org/archive/files/library/inside-malaysias-shadow-state-briefing. pdf Habermas, J. (1991). The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society. MIT Press. Hazis, F.S. (2012). Domination and Contestation: Muslim Bumiputera Politics in Sarawak. ISEAS. Ichikawa, M. (2007). Degradation and Loss of Forest Land and Land-Use Changes in Sarawak, East Malaysia: A Study of Native Land Use by the Iban. In T. Nakashizuka (Ed.), Sustainability and Diversity of Forest Ecosystems (pp. 403–413). Springer.

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Jalli, N.B. (2017). Media and Politics: Students’ Attitudes and Experts’ Opinions Towards Citizen Journalism and Political Outcomes in Malaysia. Ohio University Press. Jalli, N.B., & Sualman, I. (2020). Exploring Contemporary Security Issues Near Sarawak- Kalimantan Border. Jurnal Komunikasi, 36(1), 401–418. Johannessen, M.R., Sæbø, Ø., & Flak, L.S. (2016). Social Media as Public Sphere: A Stakeholder Perspective. Transforming Government: People, Process and Policy, 10(2), 212–238. Karulus, Y., & Askandar, K. (2020). Human Security and Development at the Border: The Caseof Ba’kelalan, Sarawak, Malaysia. East Asia, 37(4), 369–380. Lakhani, N. (2020). Army Corps of Engineers Ordered to Conduct Full Environmental Review, Which Could Take Years. The Guardian. Retrieved March 27, 2020, from https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2020/mar/25/dak ota-access-pipeline-permits-court-standing-rock Latimore, J., Nolan, D., Simons, M., & Khan, E. (2017). Reassembling the Indigenous Public Sphere. Australasian Journal of Information Systems, 21, 1–15. https://doi.org/10.3127/ajis.v21i0.1529 Lim, H.P. (2019). Landowners Complain of NCR Land Encroachment to Suhakam. The Borneo Post. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.the borneopost.com/2019/12/20/landowners-complain-of-ncr-land-encroachm ent-to-suhakam/ Malanjum, R. (2020). Native Customary Rights Land in Sarawak: Reflections on Director of Forest, Sarawak v TR Sandah ak Tabau [PowerPoint presentation]. Retrieved October 15, 2020, from https://law.um.edu.my/news/webinar-ref lections-on-director-of-forest-sarawak-v-tr-sandah-ak-tabau Manaf, A.A., Sum, S.M., Lyndon, N., Ramli, Z., Saad, S., Selvadurai, S., Hussain, M.Y., Jaafar, M., & Jali, M.F.M. (2017). Sempadan dan pertikaian pemilikan tanah adat di Sarawak. Geografia, 11(7), 92–103. Nanda, K., & Yap, N. (2019). Make Sarawak’s Native Partners in State Development, Says Expert. The Star. Retrieved December 16, 2019, https://www. thestar.com.my/news/nation/2019/09/25/make-sarawaks-native-partnersin-state-development-says-expert--rage-newsflas Ngidang, D. (2002). Contradictions in Land Development Schemes: The Case of Joint Ventures in Sarawak, Malaysia. Asia Pacific Viewpoint, 43(2), 157–180. ———. (2005). Deconstruction and Reconstruction of Native Customary Land Tenure in Sarawak. Japanese Journal of Southeast Asian Studies, 43(1), 47–75. Pringle, R. (2010). Rajahs and Rebels: The Ibans of Sarawak Under Brooke Rule, 1841–1941. Cornell University Press. Schäfer, M.S. (2015). Digital Public Sphere. The International Encyclopedia of Political Communication, 15, 1–7. Shirky, C. (2011). The Political Power of Social Media: Technology, the Public Sphere, and Political Change. Foreign Affairs, 28–41.

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Skinner, C.J.F. (2010). The Varying Treatment of Selected Human Rights Issues Via Internet Media in Sarawak, East Malaysia [Doctoral dissertation, Simon Fraser University]. Straumann, L. (2014). Money Logging: On the Trail of the Asian Timber Mafia. Bergli Books. Tay, M. (2017). Development and Environmental Injustice in Malaysia: A Story of Indigenous Resistance in Sarawak. EnviroLab Asia, 1(1), 7. TR Sandah ak Tabau & Ors v. Director of Forest Sarawak & Anor and Other Appeals. (n.d.). Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.elaw.my/JE/01/ JE10_2019.pdf Wilson, A., Carlson, B.L., & Sciascia, A. (2017). Reterritorialising Social Media: Indigenous People Rise Up. Australasian Journal of Information Systems, 21. https://doi.org/10.3127/ajis.v21i0.1591 Yap, P.S. (2020). New Media and Civil Society: A Study of Native Customary Rights (NCR) Land and Community-based Organisations (CBOs) in Sarawak, Malaysia [Doctoral dissertation, University of Salford].

Nuurrianti Jalli is an assistant professor of Communication Studies at Northern State University in South Dakota. Originally from Sarawak, she received her doctorate in mass communication from Ohio University. Her research areas range from information disorders and media information literacy to media and democracy in Southeast Asia. She has also served as a resource person for multiple agencies including the United Nations, the Brookings Institute and DoubleThink Lab, among others. James Chin is a professor of Asian Studies at the University of Tasmania. He was the inaugural director of the Asia Institute Tasmania and the founding head of the School of Arts and Social Sciences of the Malaysian campus of Monash University. He is also a senior fellow at the Jeffrey Cheah Institute on Southeast Asia, and was a senior visiting fellow at Singapore’s Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (now the ISEAS–Yusof Ishak Institute). He is widely regarded as a leading scholar of contemporary Malaysian politics, especially on Sabah and Sarawak.

CHAPTER 3

Some Orang Asli Still Think Najib Is PM: Representations and Self-Representations of the Orang Asli in the Cameron Highlands By-election Benjamin YH Loh and Rusaslina Idrus

Introduction In November 2019, the Malaysian Election Court declared the results of the parliamentary election in Cameron Highlands null and void due to corrupt practices during the 2018 general election (GE14), following charges made by the opposing candidate. The incumbent member of parliament (MP) from the Barisan Nasional (BN) coalition was found

B. YH Loh (B) School of Media and Communication, Taylor’s University, Subang Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia e-mail: [email protected]; [email protected] R. Idrus Gender Studies Programme, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Universiti Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_3

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guilty of offering cash bribes to Orang Asli villagers, and thus a byelection was declared for 26 January 2019. Given that Pakatan Harapan (PH), the new ruling coalition since GE14, had lost several by-elections since coming to power in May 2018 and the controversial circumstances of the by-election, a lot of national and media attention was attracted. The fight largely came down to a contest between PH’s M. Manogaran and BN’s Orang Asli candidate, Ramli Mohd Nor, although two independents, Wong Seng Yee and Sallehuddin Ab Talib, also contested (Malaysiakini 2019c). The Orang Asli, who number approximately 215,000 and make up less than one percent of the total population of Peninsular Malaysia (IWGIA 2021), have historically been ignored as a political constituency. However, Orang Asli votes may make a significant difference in certain electorates— in Cameron Highlands, they consist of 21% of the constituency. In the weeks leading up to the January by-election, a slew of politicians, including national party leaders, made their way into local Orang Asli villages to woo potential voters. BN’s candidate was in fact the first Orang Asli parliamentary nominee in Malaysian electoral history, thus increasing the attention paid to the community—otherwise, news media historically paid little notice to the Orang Asli in general, and even less so to them as voters. For weeks leading up to election day, there was a marked increase in mainstream media coverage of the Orang Asli of Cameron Highlands. Our research focussed on this unique set of circumstances—i.e. one where the local Orang Asli played a central role as political decisionmakers—to analyse media representation of the Orang Asli as a political constituency. Eventually, we used a critical discourse analysis to examine mainstream media representations of the Orang Asli and compared these to the self-representation of the community through online forums by analysing articles and postings made between 3 January and 14 February 2019, i.e. at the height of the campaign period. Specifically, we conducted a comparative textual analysis of two online news media sites (Malaysiakini and Sinar Harian) and discussions in two Facebook groups—the Oh My Asal page (OMA) and Member Orang Asli Se Facebook (MOASF). These Facebook groups are alternative spaces for the Orang Asli to discuss and comment on current issues, and we paid particular attention to the discussions in MOASF because some were active regarding the by-elections. In addition, we surveyed discussions on the public Facebook pages of Orang Asli activists and leaders.

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The findings show that even in situations where the Orang Asli were important political actors, they were still portrayed by mainstream media as having limited agency, authority and decision-making power. Much coverage focussed on the Orang Asli as beneficiaries of state handouts and staunch supporters of the traditional party’s (i.e. BN’s) candidate instead. In comparison, within their own online spaces, discussions indicated that the Orang Asli positioned themselves as important stakeholders, capable of decision-making and active analyses of the political situation. In this alternative space, discussions focussed on support for certain political candidates, their treatment under different ruling governments and mistrust of politicians’ promises. We, therefore, argue that the Orang Asli have a strong sense of political agency in the way that they see themselves in relation to the rest of Malaysia. There was a clear articulation from some of their comments regarding their condition, in comparison with the rest of the country’s population under both the BN and PH administrations. This was in stark contrast to mainstream media representations that still perpetuate decades-old stereotypes of the Orang Asli—i.e. not knowing what is best for their own community and having limited agency. Here, the Orang Asli have found a means to express their dissatisfaction and created a space for analysis and discussion in these online forums. Clearly, there is a need for greater consideration of the Orang Asli as important political actors and to include their voices within the broader Malaysian political discourse.

The Orang Asli in Malaysia The term “Orang Asli”, which literally translates to “Original People”, is an administrative category that comprises 18 sub-ethnic groups or suku kaum. Like many indigenous people around the world, land security is their most pressing issue. Their customary territory and way of life are threatened by rampant development and environmental destruction (IWGIA 2021). Despite there being a government department in charge of Orang Asli welfare since 1954, socioeconomic indicators point to the community’s poor status, e.g. high poverty, malnutrition, school dropout rates as well as a lack of amenities such as potable water and electricity (Idrus 2013). The current authority on Orang Asli matters, the Department of Orang Asli Development (JAKOA) with its origins in the colonial administration, has taken a paternalistic and protectionist “womb to tomb” approach

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to Orang Asli welfare.1 The Aboriginal Act, which governs the community, positions the Orang Asli as wards of the state. During the colonial period, the Orang Asli were deemed as needing protection from “Outsiders”, while during the Malayan Emergency, they were to be protected from communist influence (Idrus 2011). The discourse of protection has continued until today, with the Orang Asli framed as being incapable of making their own decisions, thus legitimising state intervention in many different aspects of their lives. According to the Aboriginal Peoples Act 1954, the state decides who is designated as an Orang Asli, the status of their land and who can have access to their villages (Aboriginal Peoples Act 1954). Over the past several decades, there has been a more active and organised Orang Asli movement to assert their rights in more visible ways. This is linked to the rise of civil society in Malaysia, years of grassrootslevel organising and international indigenous activism. The community has since organised many protests and blockades, while making attempts to gain media representation. Some groups have also taken the litigation route, resulting in several notable court cases affirming Orang Asli customary rights (Subramaniam 2015; Kamal and Lim 2019). Orang Asli protests and political actions are often framed by the government as being anti-development or instigated by outsiders. This framing of the Orang Asli as not knowing what is best for them also influences a “backwards” and “primitive” public perception. It may be instructive to note that “Jakun”, which is actually the name of a subethnic group, is often (knowingly or not) used as a pejorative to indicate someone who is uncultured or uncivilised. Some allies tend to frame the Orang Asli as powerless victims and often speak on their behalf. In cases where Orang Asli issues are integrated with economic measures by the authorities, such as participating in ecotourism initiatives in the Royal Belum State Park, their involvement can be very limited and relegated to minor roles (Kamal 2020). Politically, the Orang Asli have tended to vote to preserve the status quo, i.e. supporting the establishment. Functionally a “fixed deposit” during BN rule, their small numbers have left them generally ignored as a political constituency. However, more recent political changes saw some shifts in Orang Asli voting patterns, with younger people supporting 1 Previously known as the Department of Orang Asli Affairs (JHEOA), it has gone through several iterations following its establishment. See https://www.jakoa.gov.my/.

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opposition candidates and Orang Asli participating directly as political candidates. In GE14, three Orang Asli candidates were fielded by different political parties in the campaigns for state-level seats, with others campaigning actively on the ground for these parties. Even though many live in rural areas, the Orang Asli have historically recorded a high voter turnout. Thus, the Cameron Highlands by-election saw the important role of the Orang Asli in: (1) stepping forward as key witnesses in the bribery charges leading to the incumbent MP’s dismissal; (2) representing 21% of the possible votes; and (3) having their voting power acknowledged by the nomination of an Orang Asli candidate.

Media Representation of Indigenous People In Malaysia Mass media plays an important role in shaping societal understanding and perception of the “Other” by normalising certain social constructs (Fürsich 2010). The media also has the power to influence society by highlighting or ignoring certain public issues (ibid.). Fforde et al. (2013, p. 162), writing about the representation of the Aboriginal people in Australia, uses the term “deficit discourse” to describe “a mode of thinking, identifiable in language use, that frames Aboriginal identity in a narrative of negativity, deficiency and disempowerment”. This “deficit discourse” frames much representation of the Orang Asli, where stereotypes of them as backwards and deficient people frame media coverage. Alagappar et al. (2010) used an agenda-setting framework to examine reports on the Orang Asli in the New Straits Times between January and December 2008, including during the twelfth general election. The study found that such news was limited, with only a total of 81 articles published. Additionally, these articles were mostly statements made by government officials and highlighted charity projects by corporate organisations. They also found a dearth of coverage related to the general election, which was an indication that the Orang Asli were not seen as important voters. Their analysis of traits used to describe the community showed that the Orang Asli were portrayed as either victims or beneficiaries. Only six highlighted Orang Asli achievements, while the articles mostly focussed on highlighting “their plight as an underprivileged community with a constant need for assistance” (p. 104).

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Similarly, Marlina Jamal and Shakila Abdul Manan (2016) used a critical discourse analysis to examine 12 news articles in The Star from March to October 2011. The study found that the Orang Asli were portrayed in a “negative and stereotypical fashion”, while elites and government entities were depicted as positive and powerful (p. 39). Often, the voices of the authorities dominated the stories, speaking on behalf of the community. The Orang Asli, excluded from the conversation, were presented as “weak, backwards, and disempowered” (p. 40). Later, Ismail et al. (2020) also analysed the representation of Orang Asli in The Star, surveying articles from 2003 to early 2019 using a corpus-assisted data analysis, confirming and extending the aforementioned findings while also focussing on how authoritative voices were represented in the stories. They found that media coverage mostly focussed on external authorities (e.g. government agencies such as JAKOA) rather than the Orang Asli leaders. Out of 650 instances, only 19 (three percent) presented the voice of Orang Asli leaders (the Tok Batin). They also found that the Tok Batin were often represented as emotional (e.g. facing heartache) and as recipients of government assistance (e.g. getting salaries and allowances), while the “over representations of authorities and their actions foreshadow [sic, overshadow] the leaders of Orang Asli and their decisions, and consequently muted their voice within the mainstream news media” (p. 64).2 Overseas The positioning of indigenous peoples as negative, deficient and disempowered is prevalent in mainstream news worldwide, which not only shapes public understanding of a particular community but may also be internalised by said community (Fforde et al. 2013; Bamblett 2011). In a study of the media representation of Aboriginals in rural Australia, researchers found that mainstream newspapers mostly portrayed the community in a negative light while justifying government interventions that impinged upon its rights (Proudfoot and Habibis 2015). In comparison, Aboriginal popular media provided a more nuanced perspective of the issues and represented their concerns. 2 It should be noted that the parent organisation of The Star has taken some steps to broaden its inclusion of Orang Asli through some initiatives, as seen in a R.AGE article involving several Orang Asli co-authors. See Anjang et al. (n.d.).

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A related study by Mesik¨ammen (2016) confirmed that Aboriginals were framed as “the problem”, with outside experts providing solutions. Journalists largely ignored the voices of the community while institutional practices, such as gauging newsworthiness, targeting audiences, using limited sources and restrictions on resources privileged government representatives as the “experts”, thus ignoring people without an official status. Bamblett’s (2011) study of media representation of Aborigines in sports further illustrated the use of deficit narratives, limiting the representations of indigenous peoples to certain stereotypes. Instead of highlighting individual achievements and positive life experiences, the media presented a “grievance narrative” positioning individuals as victims who overcome adversities—which were largely identified with their indigenous background. Such victimhood narratives may also be normalised and internalised by the public and the community. Bamblett warned that there is a danger here in creating another stereotypically inferior identity by repeatedly considering this one aspect of Indigenous experience when there is much richer and greater experience to draw from. (ibid., p. 5)

A more recent study has found that “deficit” reporting is still prevalent in opinion pieces on the Aborigines (Thomas and Paridies 2021). Even in “inclusive” coverage, where there was an absence of negative stereotypes, the voices and expertise of indigenous peoples were still largely absent, meaning that there was only a “surface level inclusion”. Similarly, an analysis of New Zealand newspaper items over a six-month period showed limited coverage of M¯aori issues, and even then, these tended to privilege P¯ akeh¯ a (i.e. the dominant white majority) sources (Rankine et al. 2014). In a study on media representation of the Sámi people in Finland, Pietik¨ainen (2003, p. 581) suggested that journalists were unaware of or insensitive towards the power of news media in influencing public perception, resulting in “polarized ethnic representations that contribute to the marginalisation of the Sami”. Journalistic practices limited and influenced choices in their portrayal of the Sámi, thus creating a vicious cycle which continued to exclude them from participating in public discussions on representing their own communities. Similarly, a study in Canada showed how mainstream media tended to portray indigenous peoples as being incapable of managing on their own, therefore needing continued outside intervention (Harding 2005).

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Indigenous Use of Social Media Given the limited spaces open to them in mainstream news media, indigenous peoples have turned to alternative media as spaces to share information, connect with others and voice their opinions. Alternative indigenous media spaces can come in the form of more organised popular publications, radio and television channels, or less formal spaces such as social networking sites (e.g. Facebook and Instagram). Indigenous popular media presents a more balanced perspective on indigenous issues and creates spaces for indigenous voices and expertise (Proudfoot and Habibis 2015), also providing a site for asserting indigenous identity (Carlson 2013; Lumby 2010). Individuals may use such spaces to share information about community events, traditional activities in which they are engaged and videos by indigenous artists. Social networking sites are important for many indigenous people, particularly the youth. Indigenous youth easily adapt to new technologies and use social media sites regularly as part of their everyday activities (Kral 2011; Rice et al. 2016). Australian Aborigines use Facebook “as a key self-representational tool to communicate their Aboriginal identity to other social media users” (Carlson 2013, p. 147)—here, their usage is not just limited to particular events but is an everyday activity to represent themselves to other Aboriginals and the outside world. Aside from posting daily updates and communicating with friends, social media sites are also important spaces for indigenous activists, who harness these communicative affordances to practice a politics of visibility, cultivate solidarity, diffuse an Indigenous consciousness, enforce dominant governments’ trust and treaty responsibilities, and remind many of the irrevocable injustice of colonialism. (Duarte 2017, p. 1)

Social media are also sites for displays of indigenous resurgence. During the COVID-19 pandemic, indigenous groups in Canada and the United States started using social media platforms such as Instagram to capture the resurgence of everyday activities, such as fishing, foraging and cooking indigenous foods (Corntassel 2012). Social media sites can also facilitate transnational solidarity, where indigenous groups in Malaysia shared information about the protests at Standing Rock on their Facebook feeds for this purpose.

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In Malaysia, Facebook is a popular alternative medium for the Orang Asli community. Individuals participate by posting using their own accounts and commenting on posts by friends, group accounts or pages, and sometimes initiate activism. They are several popular Orang Asli groups and pages with high numbers of followers such as MOASF with 18,500 followers, Facebook Orang Asli (FOA) with 20,300 and OMA with 11,000. While there are also non-Orang Asli participants in these groups, the majority are Orang Asli (including the group administrators) and the discussions are mostly led by Orang Asli participants. Some groups (such as FOA) are limited to Orang Asli participants only, requiring that one proves their ability to speak/write in an Orang Asli language for admission to be considered. However, there have not yet been many studies on this topic.

Method and Findings A critical discourse analysis utilising digital ethnography is used to examine the differences in representation of the Orang Asli community within the Malaysian mainstream and in their own publics. Our analytical frames examine the key issues discussed as part of the election campaign, in particular Orang Asli-specific issues. The Cameron Highlands by-election serves as a useful backdrop to examine how the community is generally presented in Malaysian mainstream online media, and how it sees itself in its respective online communities. Our textual analysis is limited to news articles and social media discussions posted between 1 January and 14 February 2019. News articles were collected from two of the largest online media outlets in Malaysia: Malaysiakini, which publishes primarily in English, and Sinar Harian, which publishes entirely in Bahasa Malaysia. We have also conducted an analysis of the discussions within the two main open Facebook communities heavily utilised by members of the Orang Asli community: MOASF and OMA. These groups have incredibly vibrant communities and posts centring on contemporary and current issues affecting the community at large.

Findings For our online news sites, in line with previous by-elections, a major portion of reportage was on the by-election itself. Because these are few and far in between, they often serve as isolated political blips that

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draw national focus to the constituency in question during the campaign period. This was also the first by-election where PH, which had just come to power, could snatch an opposition seat and rein in the growing public backlash against its proposed ratification of the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, which saw a massive street protest in December 2018 (Kamilia 2019). Thus, PH needed a win here to assert its dominance. What makes this by-election particularly interesting for analysis is the fact that this parliamentary constituency has the largest Orang Asli demographic in the country, thus also serving to highlight their plight. As such, the full political machinery of both PH and BN was in full force, where almost all political representatives and ministers went down to the field or so to speak. A major focus was on improving the quality of life of and access to services for Orang Asli across the country—here, BN took the most radical move by selecting a candidate from the Orang Asli community (the candidate’s father is Semai, while his mother is Temiar), a first for the historically Malay-centric party. But what emerges in mainstream and indigenous media are two very different representations of the Orang Asli, which we will study in turn. Setting the (Mainstream Media) Agenda Briefly, agenda-setting is very subtle and strongly rooted at the structural level—e.g. in terms of media ownership and their editorial directions—while operating within the parameters of the Printing Presses and Publications Act 1984. This regulatory framework has forced local media practitioners to adopt a journalistic style where articles are often very minimalistic, with little supplementary information aside from direct observations and quotes from public figures but no additional verification or analysis of what was said. In practice, this means that media outlets tend to structure articles around a public figure and include key quotes pertaining to the specific issue being addressed. As such, the media agenda for election coverage is often built around politicians’ discourse and supplemented by on-the-ground interviews with locals and key experts. The agenda results in the latent Othering of the Orang Asli community, where any engagement is always at a distance. During the campaign, only a few media outlets conducted interviews with members of the community, and even so, only a handful of stories were produced. These were outliers in the sea of articles focussing on outsiders who

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adopted different stances, approaches and narratives with regard to the community. At the same time, it is important to note that there were differences by language, with Malay-language media conducting more onthe ground reporting and interviews with local Tok Batin and Orang Asli representatives. Narratives of Outsiders Generally, the few interviews on Orang Asli topics in the English-language media were conducted with Orang Asli-centric non-governmental organisations or representatives of political parties. Even so, there seemed to be a general use of stereotypes and shorthand. The resulting inverted pyramid of Orang Asli stories would often feature some descriptions of poor access to amenities, education or work opportunities—in other words, they used Fforde et al.’s (2013) “deficit discourse”. For example, Suresh Kumar of Parti Sosialis Malaysia, even while criticising the approaches taken by PH, commented that the Orang Asli leaders. don’t really give the picture of what’s happening in the villages, they just give the picture that pleases you. / The Batin mindset has been like that (since) BN’s (time).

This theme of a lack of development permeated the broader discourse, also seen in T.K. Chua’s piece in Free Malaysia Today criticising “[p]oliticians from both sides of the divide” for the continued existence of “so many of our rural voters [who] are still desperate for minor handouts” (Chua 2019). But also included was the assumption that the Orang Asli were passive victims—in Chua’s words, “poor, destitute and ignorant”. Even journeys into the constituency painted an image of remoteness and inaccessibility. In a Malaysiakini article (Lee 2019a), PH’s Lim Kit Siang made it a point to describe the length and arduousness of a 35km journey involving river crossings, vehicular breakdowns and muddy roads. For him, lacklustre “roti canai roads” became a particular point of emphasis in another article (Malaysiakini 2019b) to highlight Orang Asli deprivation compared to urban Malaysians. As PH’s Liew Chin Tong explained: “When I go to one of their villages, I am told [that] the roads are in bad condition and that there are many without phones” (Ng 2019). This was not, strictly speaking, true. While internet access was incredibly spotty and erratic, with poor connectivity and sparse coverage

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from telecommunication towers, most interviews highlighted how almost everyone in the community still had smartphones, although this nuance was oft-overlooked. And in this fashion, the Orang Asli, living in deeply rural and isolated environments, are presented as the Other for the Malaysian public, with certain traits being highlighted. These include but are not limited to living in the interior and/or refusing to modernise; poverty; being uneducated; mainly voting based on who could give the most handouts; and lacking individual agency, simply following the local Tok Batin’s orders. Such assumptions are convenient for politicians in power, who generally speak on their behalf without the need for empathy. Paternalistically, Ismail Sabri (the current prime minister at the time of writing) was quoted telling the community what was best for them. Now they [the Orang Asli] have opportunities and they certainly have to work hard to ensure success for their people … I have told the Semai, of the 18 suku in Malaysia, the selected candidate [Ramli] is a Semai from Cameron Highlands, don’t lose this opportunity to ensure his success. (Shaarani 2019)3

Not to be outshone, PH made its own political promises, turning attention to specific, localised topics. Minister of Education Maszlee Malik explained how his “ministry will be in touch with the state education department and we will look into suitable measures to help the Orang Asli community”, while on a walkabout at Kuala Medang (Alagesh and Nik 2019). Not all politicians came with explicitly political messages— Syed Saddiq provided a “rare treat” by playing football with local children, insisting that he was there voluntarily. “I did not use government machinery, I left the ministry’s car behind and I drove my own” (Tong 2019).

3 Translation ours. The original is as follows. “Sekarang mereka (Orang Asli) sudah

ada peluang dan sudah tentu mereka akan bekerja keras bagi memastikan kemenangan untuk kaum mereka. … Saya sudah beritahu kepada masyarakat Orang Asli kaum Semai, di Malaysia ini ada 18 suku kaum Orang Asli dan yang terpilih (sebagai calon) adalah kaum Semai dari Cameron Highlands, jadi jangan lepaskan peluang ini untuk pastikan kemenangan dia (Ramli)”.

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Election Analysis Similar trends in the depiction of the Orang Asli continued in the pre-election analysis. The English-language media in particular deployed stereotypical problems associated with the Orang Asli community (e.g. their lack of development and poor education) to frame the importance of its votes. An implication was that the Orang Asli could benefit only by having a direct link to the federal government through their local MP. Lim Guan Eng, then finance minister, was quoted as saying If we want Cameron Highlands to have development, ensure we can win as the (state) government does not have enough money; in fact, it has no money lah … but there are reserves from the federal government to develop Cameron Highlands. (Ng 2019)

PH’s approach backfired when one of its senators, Bob Manolan Mohd, allegedly threatened local chiefs if they failed to vote for PH, leading to former BN prime minister, Najib Razak, being gladly welcomed by community members. He then proclaimed that: “The Orang Asli have honour! Do not treat the Orang Asli like fools. Do not belittle the Orang Asli or threaten the Orang Asli” (Lee 2019b). When it came to the Malay-language media, the same issues were similarly highlighted, but to their credit they at least provided more detail and examples while engaging more directly with the community.4 For example, they mentioned specific locations, amenities and services that were missing or lacking. In some cases, relevant conditions on the ground were brought up even if the political atmosphere was not directly addressed, as seen in a report on a request submitted to the government to rethink plans to build a dam locally (Sinar Harian 2019). Ramli’s Semai identity was also brought up as one of the reasons behind Orang Asli support for BN, despite BN’s supposed shortcomings over the years (Raziatul 2019c). This did not mean that stereotypes were absent—when reporting on an independent candidate’s statement, the most highlighted point was that the Orang Asli were regarded as a “fixed deposit for a certain political party because of their poor education levels” (Raziatul

4 See, for example, some human-interest stories by Raziatual (2019a, 2019b).

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2019d).5 Other election-period staple headlines, such as party spokespeople defending their supposedly poor track record in providing for the Orang Asli, also appeared (Siti 2019). Malaysiakini emphasised Malay translations of their articles when reporting on these issues—indeed, some did feature interviews on the ground. Here, one Tok Batin from Kampung Sungai Getan lamented the difficulties faced by the youth and aired some general grievances. Many of the youths here have (driving) licenses. But when they (apply to become) Hilux drivers, Bangladeshis and Nepalis are hired. … We, who have lived here for years, what do we get? Nothing. We work on farms for RM30, if we ask for higher wages the towkay [employer] claims it is expensive, he won’t hire Orang Asli. (Ahmad and Bernama 2019)6

But its other articles still highlighted the centrality of candidates, such as M. Manogaran’s emphasis of the importance of the elected candidate’s link to the ruling government, thus dismissing Ramli’s chances of success: “I can knock harder (on the government’s door) if I am elected as an MP” (Malaysiakini 2019c).7 Post-election, when Ramli Mohd Nor eventually proved successful, many media outlets still downplayed the Orang Asli community’s involvement in this historic moment—only a few highlighted changes in their voting patterns and its significance. While Institut Darul Ehsan acknowledged the centrality of Ramli’s ethnicity, where BN’s strategy to ensure that he would become the “first Orang Asli representative in the Parliament if he wins” was key, the institute then moved on to factors such as “blunders committed by Harapan throughout the campaign period” (Malaysiakini 2019d). The English-language media largely ignored the Orang Asli community, and their analyses were directed towards an English-speaking urban audience (by focussing more on the broad shift in 5 Translation ours. The original is as follows: “deposit tetap kepada sesebuah parti politik kerana tahap pendidikan yang rendah”. 6 Translation ours. The original is as follows: “Anak muda sini ramai yang ada lesen. Tapi bila nak (mohon) jadi pemandu Hilux semua Bangladesh, Nepal yang sapu (ambil)…. Kami yang duduk di sini bertahun-tahun tapi apa yang kami dapat? Tiada apa. Bila kerja kebun upah RM30, kalau minta upah lebih tauke kata mahal, dia tak nak ambil Orang Asli bekerja”. 7 Translation ours. The original is as follows: “Cuma saya boleh ketuk (pintu kerajaan) lebih kuat jika saya dipilih sebagai anggota parlimen”.

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momentum away from PH at the federal level), while the Malay-language media was slightly more inclusive. The underlying assumption at play was that the Orang Asli only consumed Malay-language media, and therefore, English-language media might as well not engage with them.

Discourse Among the Orang Asli8 Informal Online Spaces What about the Orang Asli themselves, and their digital public spaces? What opinions were being expressed there? To understand this, we looked at more informal online spaces where such discourse took place. Most Facebook posts were based on shared news articles or web links, and discussions took place in the comments section (however, sometimes sentiments were expressed through positive or negative reactions only), based on the topics discussed. Upon closer inspection, these were vibrant discussion spaces—OMA appears to be more supportive of BN in general, while MOASF’s members are more balanced. Regardless of political differences, the Orang Asli members and followers were quite cordial with each other—while this does not mean that there was no trolling or attacking one another, such incidents were isolated and rare. Otherwise, the discussion did not extend beyond several heated exchanges, where at this point someone usually “came in” to remind commenters to remain civil. Common Emergent Themes These Orang Asli digital publics are generally bipartisan, and here, numerous discussions emerged within the comments, discussing each other’s political views and how they could improve their situation through the by-election.9 Below, we will focus on MOASF posts specifically. The 8 It is useful to draw analogies with earlier research that one of us conducted on 2020s Sabah state election. Viewing “Sabah from the ground” allows a deeper understanding of the dynamics at play among voters and the general sentiment, as opposed to the stereotypical views by outsiders. See Loh and Ho (2021). 9 In one post announcing the unofficial results, it seemed that most commentators were in support of Ramli’s victory (MOASF 2019k); in another, there were many positive responses to a sharing of his victory, although no visible comments were noted at the time of writing (MOASF 2019l).

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discussions generally encompassed two schools of thought: (1) the need for more policies to benefit or uplift the Orang Asli community; and (2) the need for drastic reforms to restore them to their proper position as the primary inhabitants of the country and provide reparations for losses. The second point invites closer analysis, given that it is tied to the historical and political context of the community. In this narrative, the Orang Asli are effectively fighting against Malay(sian) “neocolonialism”, or at least hegemony. Amongst many of the more vocal discussants, reforms also entailed addressing their apparent continued oppression by the Malays.10 This claim hinged on the perception that the (majority Malay) federal and state governments continue to reject their historical position, denying them proper access to services and social mobility. Under federal law, they do not qualify for the same benefits as Malays or even the Orang Asal (a blanket term for indigenous people) from Sabah and Sarawak—rather, they effectively remain wards of the state under the paternalistic thumb of JAKOA. The situation is compounded even among the Muslim Orang Asli, who still have less rights compared to other Nusantara Muslims (such as those from the Indonesian islands) or Indian Muslims. Proselytisation and conversion to Islam increases the size of the Muslim population on paper without conferring Bumiputera benefits.11 As a result, some expressed dissatisfaction with: (1) the Malay leaders for perpetuating the oppression of the Orang Asli over many centuries12 and effectively displacing them as the original inhabitants of the land (the semantics of “Orang Asli” aside); and (2) the ethnic Chinese and Indians for having more rights than them in spite of their forefathers being relative newcomers. Several other themes specifically pertaining to the by-election were at play. The first, naturally, was political representation. While many were happy about Ramli’s selection as the BN candidate, this feeling was

10 See MOASF (2019o) for an example. 11 In one post, Lim Kit Siang’s statement on the Orang Asli having similar rights to

migrants was seen as insulting. In these discussions, commentators noted that the Orang Asal had less rights than the non-Bumiputera, and that this situation needed to change. Many members of the community did not realise that they lacked certain rights, and thus some members felt the need to educate them. 12 “Internal colonialism” has been a longstanding issue in the discourse of the Orang Asli. For a specific example pertaining to the Semai, i.e., Ramli’s suku, see Edo et al. (2009).

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balanced out by others who sceptically viewed Ramli’s candidature as tokenism (MOASF 2019a). Considering that BN had been in power since independence, many felt that it could have made such a move many decades ago. In a discussion in February 2019, an article showing Ramli on the Semenyih by-election campaign trail to visit its Orang Asli villages was met with intense online criticism (MOASF 2019p). Instead of focussing on his own constituency, Ramli was used as a means of capturing Orang Asli votes in a completely different state. Yet others saw his candidature as a change, arguably better than when other representatives never even visited Orang Asli villages. Being a minority, they were often regarded as politically inconsequential. Accordingly, Lim Kit Siang’s declaration that Ramli’s election was actually a failure was greeted with disdain (MOASF 2019i). This feeling extended to comments on post-election analyses, where PH-oriented analysts were not regarded sympathetically, with some calling out the coalition’s failings (MOASF 2019h). There was also criticism of political bullying, namely Bob Manolan’s alleged threat that Tok Batin salaries would be withheld. Many agreed that this threat should not have been made, and Manolan’s words were seen as threatening the entire community (MOASF 2019c). Instead of being reformers, as was often highlighted in PH’s political messaging, PH was now seen as replicating BN’s tactics. In fact, this particular tactic was considered BN’s main weapon, even if in practice it was impossible to determine the identities of voters and their individual choice of candidate.13 Meanwhile, silent criticism (as expressed through disapproving reactions) greeted Manogaran’s insistence that PH was not involved in bribery during the pre-election period (MOASF 2019d). Manogaran had already lost ground for his criticism of Rosli’s fielding, with one commentator stating that he was “blatantly insulting the Orang Asli” (MOASF 2019b).14 However, not everything PH-related was regarded negatively—former Prime Minister Mahathir’s admission of defeat and his pragmatic post-election approach seemed to be taken more positively (MOASF 2019m).

13 Manolan clarified that he had been misinterpreted (Malaysiakini 2019a) and PH later distanced itself from such threats (Rahimah 2019). 14 Translation ours. The original is as follows: “Terang terang menghina OA”.

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Cynicism Cynicism expectedly emerged as a very frequent theme, thus meriting a separate discussion below. Most commenters were highly suspicious and sceptical of political promises, especially given that the Orang Asli experience with such election-era promises resulted in no clear implementation after the status quo was persevered.15 Understandably, many were quite upset with BN and its history of failing to provide proper development and suppressing the community (MOASF 2019e). A common sentiment showed up often, generally running as follows: “61 years with nothing to show”. In contrast, the tone of the discussion was generally more positive when it came to PH (despite Manolan’s threat or apparent insults by senior leaders), but commenters were still wary, given that there had been no considerable development since it gained power. Thus, a lot of discussion on the hypocrisy of politicians on both sides emerged. Commenters cited both governments’ failures to provide any meaningful change, or as many put it: “Can’t see your own nose but want to bother with others”. In another post announcing the sudden appearance of development initiatives, a commenter seemed to sum up the general feeling: “They are forced to act this way. Not because they want to. They are forced to do so on the orders of the new government” (MOASF 2019j).16 In this light, partisan arguments which pointed out each other’s failures were regarded as hypocritical. When BN’s Wee Ka Siong mocked Lim Kit Siang’s rhetoric of “struggling” for Orang Asli rights, neither party escaped unscathed (MOASF 2019q). Cynicism took on a personal tone when it was directed at outsider politicians who came to campaign in Orang Asli villages, where they either: (1) did not want to know how bad things really were on the ground; or (2) were complicit in perpetuating the situation. Najib Razak was criticised for not having shown up when he was actually in a position of power before GE14 (MOASF 2019f). Another statement by Liew Chin Tong, remarking that the people of the interior were unaware of the identity of the incumbent prime minister, was viewed in the same light

15 For example, see reactions to a post in which Lim Guan Eng allegedly promised further projects in exchange for votes (MOASF 2019g). 16 Translation ours. The original is as follows: “Diorang terpaksa buat macam tu. Bukan sebab diorang nak. Mereka terpaksa buat macam tu disebabkan arahan new government ”.

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(Ng 2019).17 Commentators insisted that they were more connected than outsiders assumed, thus rejecting the implied stereotype of the “poor, destitute and ignorant” Orang Asli.

Conclusion Our analysis highlights the societal dichotomies and cleavages amplified by the Cameron Highlands by-election. While some online news media were more inclusive in their reporting on and handling of Orang Asli issues, the constant attention to politicians’ discourse led to campaign rhetoric dominating the media agenda—one centred on the perpetuation and reinforcement of decades-old stereotypes of the Orang Asli community, thus resulting in paternalistic and patronising engagement. For every article featuring a voice from the ground, almost a dozen more focussed on a politician’s speech or the resulting fallout. The greatest irony was that despite everyone talking about the election’s importance for the Orang Asli, the Orang Asli themselves were not seen as having the agency to choose their own leaders. However, the discourse in the Orang Asli Facebook groups gives us a completely different image of this oft-marginalised community. They were opinionated, well-read and completely aware of how they have been treated. Rejecting the need for others to give them a voice, online commenters engaged in critical (if colloquial) debate on how to overcome lies and propaganda from politicians who only saw the Orang Asli as political pawns with no real political will. Cynicism and disdain permeated these online spaces, given that the Orang Asli still seem to be effectively living under a neocolonial regime which continues to deny their rights as the original inhabitants of the land. Note that these participants were more likely than not based in urban centres (perhaps because the infrastructure for online communication is more reliable there), and hence more exposed to the workings of the broader population. We recognise that this could mean a possible disconnect between them and those primarily living in the interior, thus

17 Liew claimed that “[t[he Orang Asli still think Najib Abdul Razak is prime minister, BN is the government and Harapan the opposition". Similarly, commentators were critical when the assertion of the Orang Asli’s ignorance of the subject came up in a link to an Astro Awani programme featuring Deputy Prime Minister Wan Azizah” (MOASF 2019n). Note that the link to the embedded video no longer works.

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raising the question of authenticity. Is an urban-dwelling Orang Asli still culturally similar to their more rural counterparts, where poor access to infrastructure becomes as tied to their identity as much as languages, folk religions and relationships with nature? Until today the promised changes are yet to come, as predicted by many in the Orang Asli digital publics. COVID-19 lockdowns saw many Orang Asli villages left without food, and JAKOA failed to provide sufficient and timely aid while interstate restrictions hampered nongovernmental organisations’ efforts at relief (Tan 2020). This pandemic exposed many societal inequalities, where vulnerable communities were often left out of relief and aid packages. These oversights left Orang Asli villages stranded despite having an Orang Asli MP, thus highlighting their continued marginalisation and Othering. The Orang Asli Facebook groups have thus been justified in their cynicism, hence the belief that they need to depart from the existing political establishment to fight for their proper rights as indigenous people. As mentioned earlier, litigation is one of the avenues which have been pursued, but securing political and legal rights remain works-in-progress. Just how effective the digital publics can be remains to be seen, but these are valid voices that need to be heard and accepted by the Malaysian mainstream. The Orang Asli are politically aware of and critical about their rights (or lack thereof) as citizens. While they can continue to flourish in their own digital spaces, it is important that their voices be brought into public ones, and that the media plays an important role in ensuring fair representation highlighting their rights and agency.

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IWGIA. (2021, March 18). The Indigenous World 2021: Malaysia. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.iwgia.org/en/malaysia/4231-iw-2021malaysia.html Kamal, S.F. (2020). Rationalising The Role of Orang Asli in Comanagement of the Royal Belum State Park, Malaysia. Journal of Tropical Forest Science, 32(4), 361–368. Kamal S.F., & Lim, V.C. (2019). Forest Reserve as an Inclusive or Exclusive space? Engaging Orang Asli as Stakeholder in Protected Area Management. Journal of Tropical Forest Science, 31(3), 278–285. Kamilia, K.A. (2019, January 7). Analysing Malaysia’s Refusal to Ratify the ICERD. Oxford Human Rights Hub. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://ohrh.law.ox.ac.uk/analysing-malaysias-refusal-to-ratify-the-icerd/ Kral, I. (2011). Youth Media as Cultural Practice: Remote Indigenous Youth Speaking Out Loud. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 1, 4–16. Loh, B.Y.H., & Ho, Y.J. (2021). ‘Don’t Jump, Time to Work’: The Political Maturity of Sabahan Digital Spaces Through the 2020 State Election. In B. Welsh, V. Somiah, & B.Y.H. Loh (Eds.), Sabah from the Ground: The 2020 Elections and the Politics of Survival (pp. 167–188). ISEAS–Yusof Ishak Institute & SIRD. https://doi.org/10.1355/9789814951692-012 Lee, A. (2019a, January 22). After Years of Neglect, Simmering Calls from Cameron’s Orang Asli for Change. Malaysiakini. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.malaysiakini.com/news/461198 ———. (2019b, January 24). Betau Orang Asli Chiefs Roll Out Blue Carpet for Najib. Malaysiakini. https://www.malaysiakini.com/news/461541 Lumby, B.L. (2010). Cyber-Indigeneity: Urban Indigenous Identity on FaceBook. The Australian Journal of Indigenous Education, 39 (supplement), 68–75. Malaysiakini. (2019a, January 17). Kit Siang: “Roti canai” Roads Proof Najib Failed Cameron Orang Asli. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.mal aysiakini.com/news/460531 ———. (2019b, January 23). Manogaran: Saya mungkin saman k’jaan Pahang isu tanah Orang Asli. https://www.malaysiakini.com/news/461445 ———. (2019c, January 27). Biggest factor for BN’s Win: Ramli the Orang Asli, Says IDE. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.malaysiakini. com/news/461941 Marlina J., & Shakila A.M. (2016). An Ideological Construction of the Indigenous Community: The Orang Asli as Portrayed in The Star Newspaper. Kemanusiaan, 23(2), 39–62. Mesik¨ammen, E. (2016). Limited Interests, Resources, Voices: Power Relations in Mainstream News Coverage of Indigenous Policy in Australia. Media, Culture and Society, 38(5), 721–737.

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MOASF. (2019a, January 9). Apa kata2 anda selaku penduduk peribumi … (Shared by Casillas Perloy). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/223036726720 2199/ ———. (2019b, January 9). Manogaran … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook.com/gro ups/moasfgtwo/posts/2230541903851402/ ———. (2019c, January 11). He Belittled Us! (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook.com/gro ups/moasfgtwo/posts/2231832510389008/ ———. (2019d, January 14). Gambar Agih Wang … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.fac ebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/22337030102019d58/ ———. (2019e, January 15). Cerita masalah orang asli … (shared by Adi Dequiz). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook. com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2234543256784600/ ———. (2019f, January 17). Ds Najib Razak… (shared by Abdul Karim Mat Taib). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook. com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2235738626665063/ ———. (2019g, January 19) Nak projek lagi … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.fac ebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2237065553199037/ ———. (2019h, January 20). PRK Cameron … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.fac ebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2238106836428242/ ———. (2019i, January 22). Kit Siang … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook.com/gro ups/moasfgtwo/posts/2238942703011322/ ———. (2019j, January 25). 9 months in power … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.fac ebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2241080282797564/ ———. (2019k, January 26). LIVE UNOFFICIAL RESULTS … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https:// www.facebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2241538932751699/ ———. (2019l, January 26). Ramli Catat Sejarah … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.fac ebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2241635032742089/ ———. (2019m, January 29). Tangani isu kos hidup … (shared by Geikporn Sookatawai). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.fac ebook.com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2243077405931185/

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———. (2019n, January 30). PRK Cameron Highlands … (shared by Bah Esah). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook.com/gro ups/moasfgtwo/posts/2244285325810393/ ———. (2019o, February 2). Hubungan Orang Melayu … (shared by Asri D Rafael). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook. com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2246408445598081/ ———. (2019p, February 22). Calon BN Bertemu … (shared by Atei Sempadet). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook.com/gro ups/moasfgtwo/posts/2259920554246870/ ———. (2019q, May 2). Semasa PRK Cameron Highlands … (shared by Atei Sempadet). Facebook. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.facebook. com/groups/moasfgtwo/posts/2304448296460762/ Ng, X.Y. (2019, January 20). Liew: Some Orang Asli still think Najib’s PM, Harapan’s the Opposition. Malaysiakini. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.malaysiakini.com/news/460964 Proudfoot, F., & Habibis, D. (2015). Separate Worlds: A Discourse Analysis of Mainstream and Aboriginal Populist Media Accounts of the Northern Territory Emergency Response in 2007. Journal of Sociology, 51(2), 170–188. https://doi.org/10.1177/1440783313482368 Pietik¨ainen, S. (2003). Indigenous Identity in Print: Representations of the Sami in News Discourse. Discourse & Society, 14(5), 581–609. Rahimah, A. (2019, January 13). PH tidak setuju tindakan ugut Tok Batin - Dr Wan Azizah. Astro Awani. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.astroawani.com/berita-malaysia/ph-tidak-setuju-tindakanugut-tok-batin-dr-wan-azizah-195870 Rankine, J., Barnes, A.M., McCreanor, T., Nairn, R., McManus, A., Abel, S., Borell, B., & Gregory, A. (2014). Content and Source Analysis of Newspaper Items About M¯aori Issues: Silencing the “natives” in Aotearoa? Pacific Journalism Review, 20(1), 213–233. Raziatul, H.A.R. (2019a, January 13). PRK Cameron Highlands: Macam biasa Cameron Highlands tetap sesak. Sinar Harian. Retrieved June 13, 2022, https://www.sinarharian.com.my/article/7285/BERITA/Nasional/ from PRK-Cameron-Hinglands-Macam-biasa-Cameron-Highlands-tetap-sesak ———. (2019b, January 19). Orang Asli dah tak masuk hutan… Sinar Harian. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.sinarharian.com.my/article/ 8414/Pilihan-Raya/PRK-Cameron/Orang-Asli-dah-tak-masuk-hutan ———. (2019c, January 23). Ini sebab Orang Asli pilih BN. Sinar Harian. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.sinarharian.com.my/article/ 9306/Pilihan-Raya/PRK-Cameron/Ini-sebab-Orang-Asli-pilih-BN

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———. (2019d, January 23). Kenapa Orang Asli jadi “fix deposit” parti politik. Sinar Harian. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.sinarharian.com. my/article/9342/Pilihan-Raya/PRK-Cameron/Kenapa-Orang-Asli-jadi-fixdeposit-parti-politik Rice, E.S., Haynes, E. Royce, P., & Thompson, S.C. (2016). Social Media and Digital Technology Use Among Indigenous Young People in Australia: A Literature Review. International Journal for Equity in Health, 15(81), 1–16. Shaarani, I. (2019, January 21). Masyarakat Orang Asli perlu kerja keras. Harian Metro. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.hmetro.com.my/mut akhir/2019/01/414270/masyarakat-orang-asli-perlu-kerja-keras Sinar Harian. (2019, January 8). Orang Asli Lanai minta kerajaan kaji semula pembinaan empangan. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.sinarh arian.com.my/article/6213/BERITA/Nasional/Orang-Asli-Lanai-minta-ker ajaan-kaji-semula-pembinaan-empangan Siti, N.A.B. (2019, January 18). Tak tepat kata BN gagal bela Orang Asli. Sinar Harian. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.sinarharian.com.my/ article/8230/Pilihan-Raya/Tak-tepat-kata-BN-gagal-bela-Orang-Asli Subramaniam, Y. (2015). Ethnicity, Indigeneity and Indigenous Rights: The “Orang Asli” Experience. QUT Law Review, 15(1), 71–91. Tan, V. (2020, April 17). Isolated and Short of Supplies, Malaysia’s Indigenous Groups Depend on Aid to Ride Out Movement Control Order. Channel News Asia. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.channelnewsasia. com/asia/covid19-malaysia-orang-asli-food-shortage-ngos-764691 Thomas, A., & Paradies, Y. (2021, July 1). Included But Still Marginalised: Indigenous Voices Still Missing in Media Stories on Indigenous Affairs. The Conversation. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://theconversation.com/ included-but-still-marginalised-indigenous-voices-still-missing-in-media-sto ries-on-indigenous-affairs-163426 Tong, G. (2019, January 14). Victory for Orang Asli Youths in Football Match Against Syed Saddiq. Malaysiakini. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https:// www.malaysiakini.com/news/460215

Benjamin YH Loh is a senior lecturer at the School of Media and Communication, Taylor’s University. He is a media scholar who employs digital ethnography in studying emergent cultures and the digital public sphere. Having received his doctorate in communications and new media from the National University of Singapore, he focusses on the confluence between technology and society, with a particular focus on minority and marginalised communities. He co-edited a book on the 2020 Sabah state elections, Sabah from the Ground: The 2020 Elections and the Politics of Survival.

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Rusaslina Idrus is a senior lecturer in the Gender Studies Programme at Universiti Malaya, where she teaches courses on social justice, development stud-ies and the environment. Rusaslina received her doctoral training in social anthro-pology from Harvard, and prior to joining UM, she was a visiting fellow at Singapore’s Institute of Southeast Asian Studies.

PART II

Migrant and Refugee Discourses

CHAPTER 4

Romance Through Digital Avatars: Online Courtship, Representation and “Catfishing” Amongst Irregular Female Migrants in Sabah Vilashini Somiah

Introduction Kim lives two lives. In the real world, she is an irregular migrant who arrived in Sabah from Tawi-Tawi in the Philippines, working hard despite the complications caused by her status—she is a member of the state’s significant migrant population, created by economic and security pressures in their homelands. They are colloquially referred to as Pendatang Tanpa Izin (PTI) and are mostly conservative Muslims and Christians. In the virtual one, she represents herself using a digital avatar, “Alanis”, a svelte woman in her late twenties with long brown hair and heavy makeup, who engages with other Facebook users to find “special friends”.

V. Somiah (B) Gender Studies Programme, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Universiti Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_4

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Some would say that Kim is “catfishing”.1 While the term has been negatively associated with scammers, Kim feels that Alanis is not a false representation of herself. “Mimang seya la tu tapi tunjuk lain-lain lah (It is me, but I portray myself differently)”, she explained. I was curious about whether or not she ever thought that a man named “Ahmad”, whom she was speaking to on Facebook, was himself a catfish. But as she put it, “he probably is, he’s never pressed for a video chat. But that wouldn’t matter, because paham jugak dia macam mana (he understands how this works)”. For many irregular female migrants of a marriageable age living in Sabah, boasting of a potential romantic partner offers women like Kim a sense of personal security, while removing several everyday anxieties— e.g. arrests by authorities, harassment by interested parties and backbiting from members of their own communities. The reality is that without the possibility of marriage, their chances of becoming respected members of their already fragile communities diminish rapidly. Family members of women are often on the lookout for potential suitors for their daughters, granddaughters, sisters and nieces through the traditional way: that is, by word of mouth. While there could be some interrogation or initial rejection by families if women find their own partners, this phase is momentary—most times, families want to celebrate unions publicly to help improve their standing. This chapter, based on interviews initially conducted for my doctoral thesis,2 employs Bourdieu’s (1986) social capital theory to explore the motivations and lived realities of irregular female migrants in their pursuit of love and romance online. Bourdieu describes capital as going beyond economic worth, and it should be seen as including “profit in all their 1 As defined online by the Cambridge Dictionary, the term can refer to “someone who pretends on social media to be someone different, in order to trick or attract other people”. 2 This ethnography was conducted in Sandakan, a coastal town located on the northeast coast in 2016–2017. The second largest town in Sabah, it has a reputation as an ethnic enclave. “Little Philippines” is home to approximately 170,000 irregular migrants, out of a total population of 390,000. While the original research focussed on human and non-human relationships between migrant communities and their environment, sufficient data were gathered on its women’s unique new media practices, upon which this chapter is based. The original work engaged with over 30 individuals who consented to be interviewed, but this chapter is supported by ethnographic data gathered from just seven individuals, six of whom were women with the titular digital avatars. All participants had provided consent to being involved in this study.

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forms”. Social capital centres on “social relationships and its major elements include social networks, civic engagement, norms of reciprocity, and generalised trust” (Bhandari and Kumi 2009). Online courtships constitute another form of capital, as seen in the manner by which they are created and later used to accrue recognition and relationships (Bourdieu and Loïc 1992). Many of my interviewees were not opposed to settling down, which is something that they desire in the long run. However, the influence of younger peers and social media leads many to criticise short and sometimes sudden courtship periods as well as societal pressures to marry quickly. Cyberspace allows for self-actualisation and meeting different persons of interest. The digital avatars created by these women reveal desired lives and identities, which can be seen as having value at both personal and social levels. They offer a glimpse into the types of control (or lack thereof) in these women’s everyday lives and how agency can sometimes be achieved in other realities. What I argue, ultimately, is that these avatars become helpful and oftentimes necessary to achieve a perceived sense of status and power in these communities.

A day in Two Lives Kim arrived in Sabah with her family when she was only nine years old. Living in Kampung Bahagia in Sandakan with her mother, her brother and his family of six, she had never married, citing her health as a reason— she was a sickly child and still faced many physical complications in adulthood. Kim explained that she and her family believed that she was not fit to conceive but despite this, relatives would continue to tell her to consider marriage, even if as a second or third wife to a willing man. She refused, despite her irregular status making continuous access to healthcare difficult. Despite her frailty, Kim never wanted to be a burden to anyone and insisted on contributing financially to the family home by working as a cleaner for a nearby car workshop. She made extra income by helping new mothers with their confinement rituals after birth and selling medicinal ointment from the Philippines, which she bought from the wet market in town. I once marvelled at her industrious nature, at which she laughed and said that her work was “biasak-biasak seja (nothing unusual)”. She explained that while she worked hard, her real karaja (work) was through

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her many online activities, which she indicated by waving her phone: “Jugak bulih bikin hepi bah (Also brings you happiness)”. She explained that she had many online friends from her two Facebook accounts—one was for her family and real-life friends, filled with daily activities, pictures and postings of work, home and leisurely activities with close friends. The other was described as a means “tuk seya cari kawan ispeyal (for me to find special friends)”. Initially hesitant, she said that she would not usually check her second account in front of strangers and informed me that its content was sensitive.3 Her avatar, “Alanis”, is portrayed as outgoing, has many diverse friends of a similar age and lives in a city somewhere in Southeast Asia. As Alanis, Kim has networked with approximately 150 individuals, most of whom seem to be from Sabah and the southern Philippines. The relationships she has established have been romantic, platonic and occasionally professional. She recently became close to “Ahmad”, a 38-year-old luxury car trader in the state capital of Kota Kinabalu. After months of flirting online, they decided to speak to each other over the phone. I asked if she was nervous about the first call, and she tittered: “Nasib suara misi macam anak dara (Good thing I still sound like a young girl)”. She explained that such a coupling would be ideal, since he had all the qualities that she desired: independence, intelligence and looks. The possibility of Ahmad being a potential catfish himself was not a concern. Instead, how Alanis (as an extension of Kim) was being respected and acknowledged bore greater significance. Kim explained that maintaining her avatar was a “job” that took a lot of time and serious effort. Her life as Alanis gave her the fulfilment and satisfaction of romantic pursuits not available in real life, but which still constituted its own kind of reality. Adalah mamak seya bilang, “dui nak, teda la kau kahwin,” tapi seya bilang, “ndapa mak, ada juga yang mau kawan sama Kim, Sayang sama Kim jugak.” Tida tau la kalau pacaya tapi diam seja mamak. (Sometimes my mother would say, “oh dear, you will never get married,” but I would say, “there’s someone I’m seeing, someone who loves me.” I don’t know if she believes me but that keeps her quiet.)

3 Kim, like many of the women featured in this chapter, was never overly secretive about her online activities with me, but was careful about what she initially revealed. I constantly assured her and other women that our time together, taking place over approximately seven months, took place in a no-judgement zone and a safe space.

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Reading Sabah’s Migrant Landscape It is now necessary for us to dive deeper into the social landscape to which Kim belongs. The overall population of Sabah comprises 3.2 million people, 886,400 (27.7 per cent) of whom are non-citizens—the largest proportion in the country (Lasimbang et al. 2016, pp. 114, 116)—who are primarily found in the districts of Sandakan and Tawau. Predominantly from the Philippines and Indonesia, such poorly paid irregular migrants fill the many needs of Malaysia’s poorest state’s “economy [which] runs on oil, gas and tourism, and much of it is dependent on foreign labour” (Al Jazeera 2008)—thus making them economic migrants. Those from the southern Philippines have fled local warfare involving the Moro National Liberation Front and its splinter group, the Moro Islamic Liberation Front, in Mindanao since the early 1990s. The term “irregular migrant” has been used to discuss the migrant situation in Sabah specifically (Grundy-Warr and Prem Kumar 2004; Allerton 2014), and the existence of eight legal definitions highlights the incredible complexity of the irregularity of legal statuses.4 By “demonizing constructions of the political outsider”, this supposed “alien danger” challenges concepts of national identity and security (Brown 2010, pp. 115–17). With “borders understood as a dangerous place”, those who cross them undermine national authority, i.e. such a migrant “pollutes the inside” (Haddad 2007, p. 119). Tension and anxiety amongst local Sabahans are amplified by the belief that irregular migrants have received citizenship and legal documentation through the supposed “Project IC (identity card)”. To appease Sabahans and curb rising numbers of migrants, the Malaysian government actively conducts immigration raids and sporadic

4 These are: (1) foreign nationals who came clandestinely without any travel documents (also referred to as “the undocumented”); (2) children born to foreign nationals in Malaysia and whose births have not been officially documented; (3) foreign workers whose work passes have expired; (4) pass abusers and contract defaulters; (5) overstayers (who may or may not be in the workforce); (6) foreign nationals in possession of false documents or holding genuine documents obtained fraudulently; (7) asylum seekers; and (8) refugees who have been granted permission for temporary stay under the IMM13(P) special pass, which is to be renewed annually (Kassim and Zin 2011, p. 4).

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repatriations. Arrested migrants found guilty of not having proper documents can be detained for months, if not years, prior to deportation, although many still find ways to return to Sabah by sea.5 Malaysia is neither party to the 1951 Refugee Convention nor its 1967 Protocol, and has neither endorsed the 1954 Convention on Stateless Persons nor the 1990 International Convention on the Protection of the Rights of all Migrant Workers, thus leaving no state institutions responsible for irregular migrants in general (Nah 2007, p. 41). Thus, even long-resident irregular migrants can be prosecuted for various immigration offences, sentenced and deported repeatedly (p. 43). These policies rest on several premises: (1) that every individual belongs to a particular place; and (2) that all immigrants are criminals subject to the full force of punishment, without distinction or exception, and who are fully responsible for their own legal status, regardless of their political realities and the practices which have resulted in their illegality (p. 37)—for which they should be punished, disciplined and excised from Malaysian territory (p. 35). Female migrants are often the most vulnerable to abuse and exploitation, being stereotyped and hypersexualised. Since their main aim is to seize economic opportunities, this constantly results in increased discrimination, coupled with reduced security and socioeconomic status (Lasimbang et al. 2016). Female migrants also generally suffer from greater vulnerability compared to their male counterparts—particularly in terms of physical, psychological and sexual abuse—especially those working in the informal and domestic industries.

Marriage and Romance in the Interdict Looking for love is a complex process amongst migrant communities. Women who hope to experience stable online and offline relationships must have some proficiency at reading the demands of their families— but when romance is introduced into the mix, further complications may arise. An increasing number of women have married into Sabahan society over the past few decades, with many having done so as a form of gaining protection. The Borneo Post (Lai 2013) reported that over 5 This route is also used by violent extremist groups, such as Abu Sayyaf and lately the so-called Islamic State, thus requiring the implementation of a dusk-to-dawn sea curfew on the east coast since 2014 (Chin 2014, p. 86).

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20,000 foreigners and Sabahans registered marriages with the Sabah Islamic Affairs Councils (JHEAINS) between 2000 and 2012. JHEAINS reported that in 2013, 10,922 wives were foreign nationals, mostly from Indonesia and the Philippines. While further literature is rather limited, my personal ethnographic research has shown that there is indeed an increasingly noticeable presence of migrant women who have married or are in relationships with Sabahan men (Somiah 2019). While marriage or monogamy is seen as a way of safeguarding general financial and legal well-being, this is not always the case, and many have been duped into mere “cultural marriages” and may be labelled as “gold-digging mistresses” by Sabahan women. These stereotypes and stigmas have often hindered migrant women from exploiting economic opportunities, subsequently leading to an increased risk of abuse and exploitation in their personal and work lives. Every woman I interviewed encountered varied but considerable difficulties and have thus attempted to simplify courtships and marriages. The communities that I worked with can generally be described as patriarchal, with families marrying off single and available females as soon as it was culturally appropriate. These included girls as young as 15, lone women whose partners have been deported from the country and even older divorcees and widows (Somiah 2021). When speaking to some men about the need to ensure that their female relatives were betrothed, their common explanation was that they were protecting the well-being of the community by conferring economic and social stability. Bourdieu’s social capital theory is generally understood from: (1) a structural dimension6 ; and (2) a cultural dimension.7 Broadly, it is concerned with one’s multiple relationships with others, often to the benefit to all parties, either individually or collectively (Spires and Cox 2016). Networks and resources are linked to “the possession of a durable network of more or less institutionalized relationships of mutual

6 The structural dimension focusses on the distinctiveness and tangibility of networks as well as how these are strengthened by the roles, rules, precedents and procedures of communication (Nahapiet and Ghoshal 1998; Coleman 1988; Uphoff and Wijayaratna 2000). 7 The cultural dimension places a stronger focus on non-economic resources such as education, language proficiency and other skills, thus helping to inform us of a network’s values, norms and attitudes (Lamont and Lareau 1998).

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acquaintance and recognition” (Bourdieu 1986, p. 251). Thus, social capital is understood as a network of cooperation based on mutual trust (Nannestad et al. 2008), where members of a community and those interested in connecting with it intend to profit in some form. Since the study informs us how online networks and the labour invested into designing avatars creates value and meaning for women, using Bourdieu’s theory is apt. Economically, “bridewealth”, or the dowry paid by future husbands, is important since it usually boosts a family’s finances. While indicative of prosperity, its actual amount varies. On the one hand, it is a show of the success that future husbands possess (e.g. if he currently works, has savings, owns a vehicle and if his family has some financial stability). On the other, this amount can also reflect the urgency of the union or the demands placed upon the suitor. I once spoke to a father who had just met a potential suitor for his daughter, and he explained that the hantaran (dowry) was a blessing, given that the recent death of a family member had torn into his finances. “Bulih juga kasi sanang kami bah ini. Bukan kami kaya. Nah ini lah urang bilang anak prumpuan bawa tuah (This helps ease our financial burden. We are not rich. This is why people say daughters are lucky)”. Socially, marriage is important in different ways for men and women, and elements of mutual understanding exist. For male interviewees, marriage is an opportunity to strengthen one’s lineage and indicate good standing. A family man has access to multiple resources—so while having multiple families strains one’s finances, wives and adult children are expected to help sustain the family, and so livelihood stress is oftentimes lightened. Other research has revealed that the grey area of marriagebrokering amongst migrant women favours men, and thus the system fails to protect women from future abuses. Women who marry for financial reasons are forced to stay silent and submit to abusive partners, and in some cases abusive extended family members (MacLean 2014). In October 2016, I attended the wedding of 25-year-old Matthew, a lorry driver, to his 17-year-old fiancée in a nearby Catholic church, followed by an afternoon-long banquet of fried fish, noodles, rice, curries and local vegetables. A month after, I was greeted by Matthew, still basking in the glow of newlywed bliss, who then invited me to his brother’s wedding, which was to be held at the end of December to a divorcee in her early 30s. His mother had taken charge of the woman’s well-being

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since her divorce and committed her to a series of village activities— including Matthew’s wedding banquet, where she met his brother. While his family may have had some reservations due to their age difference and her previous marriage, Matthew convinced them that it was a blessing. Muda lagi bah dia. Selagi ada yang mau sama dia, bagus dikasi … kasi tambahlah keturunan nanti … laki-laki mau lagi basar, kalau mampu. Dosa kalau parumpuan sandiri-sandiri, ndak dikahwin … mau dia … Nah adikku sudah di tambah anak tiga. (She’s still young. If someone wants her, they should get married … to strengthen his lineage. Men want bigger families if they can afford it. It would be a sin if we left women unmarried … They want to be married. Just like that my brother has inherited three children.)

For women in migrant communities, however, the need to see lone females settle down is only partly to do with stability but more to do with maintaining the social balance within the general female population. A mother of two who lived at Mile 6 explained that she was married off at 19 at her mother’s insistence that it “was better for everyone”. She was lucky that her family agreed to her choice of husband, but the more anxious members of the community were the other women in the village. Once she had her own daughter, it became easy to see single women as sexual threats, a feeling that she had never considered in the past (see also Ussher et al. 2017). “I am not the jealous type, but tida suka la kalau ada yang bersundal (I don’t like having promiscuous women around)”, she explained—here, singlehood is inextricably linked with promiscuity. Domestication results in the community’s equilibrium and ensures some normalcy despite the ongoing threat of deportation. But there are cases in which women have resisted these practices, either due to being involved with an unapproved partner or wanting personal time to decide on their own fates. In such situations, it is not uncommon to see single migrant women being shamed, and in rare cases, physically attacked. If migrant women attempt to leave an unhappy marriage, they are often recaptured and beaten severely (Hilsdon 2006, p. 406). In rare cases of elopement, honour killings are known (p. 413). These stories weigh heavily on the women whom I interviewed, and they shared different versions of these ngerik (gruesome) horror tales from their childhood. Thus for them, exploring romance can oftentimes be daunting and requires unconventional approaches. Escaping judgement and cultural

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demands are pressing challenges for many, and so digital avatars on social media permit them a degree of exploration. Online spaces offer chances to speak openly to romantic partners and express themselves in ways that would not be possible in everyday life. Using avatars blurs the multiple boundaries between what is permitted and desired, thus expanding their personal narratives of romance. Sherry Turkle writes that [a]lone with your thoughts, yet in touch with an almost intangible fantasy of the other, you feel free to play. At the screen, you have a chance to write yourself into the person you want to be and to imagine others as you wish them to be, constructing them for your purposes. (Turkle 2011, quoted in Laing 2016, p. 228)8

Juliana, a 22-year-old of Visayan descent, was born in Sabah but remains undocumented. When I met her, she worked as a waitress in a local restaurant together with several other young migrants. She explained that she was expected to marry a young man in her village whom she had always been fond of. While they always seemed close and were tastefully flirtatious at times, a relationship never materialised. The young man’s family, having noticed their closeness, came to speak to her parents about the possibility of marriage. “His mother said that other girls also liked him, but because he preferred me to the others, we should not wait much longer”, she said. But Juliana was hesitant. When we spoke, it had been four months since the mother’s visit. She said that her mother and married older sister had been pressuring her for an answer, but Juliana was undecided. “Seya misi mencari bah ni. Ada yang lain tapi bukan di kampung. Di sosmed (I’m still looking around. There are others, just not at the village. They are on social media)”, she explained. I asked if she had ever expressed this sentiment to her family, and she denied it. Some of the men she was seeing online were not Visayan, with one possibly of East Asian descent. “Suka seya tinguk crita Korea bah. Kalau ada rejeki mau kawin Korea (I like watching Korean shows. If there’s a chance, I’d like to marry a Korean)”, she giggled, showing me other East Asian-looking Facebook avatars with whom she had been chatting. When I asked if the men were actually Korean, she said that they weren’t, but had adopted Korean aesthetics which the young man in the village lacked. “Tida pandai dia kasi peshyen 8 It is instructive that Turkle adds: “It’s a seductive but dangerous habit of mind”.

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bagini dia (He doesn’t know how to fashion himself like this). He can’t even teach me how to speak Korean words like these men do”. Juliana never articulated this particular sentiment to her family or the young man, and eventually married him out of pressure and the belief that she would never have the chance to look elsewhere. What became clear was that women like Juliana are rarely included in the final decision-making process, which does not consider their wants and pleasures. The generalised construction of the female migrant is narrow and fails to uncover the complexities of their desires for romance and marriage (Riaño 2015). Their emotions are often left out of public discourse due to the general stereotype of the migrant marriage being financially driven, and any imaginings of romance and personal expectations of ideal partners should be treated as mythmaking. Also, many irregular female migrants depend on their smart devices for different types of release (both economic benefits and intimate connections), thus offering a chance to escape banality (Hoang and Yeoh 2014).

The Labour and Function of Digital Avatars For many participants, cyberspace has become a major tool of empowerment. From keeping in touch with loved ones to offering educational materials, as well as keeping abreast with other networks on potential raids and roadblocks, social media and personal messaging apps have changed the way in which many in migrant communities live and survive. Also, owning a smart device has become less of a financial burden, with phones that are kurang ori (not as original) or fakes from China easily available in shopping areas, supplemented by affordable pay-as-you-go data plans and pro-rated usage. One point of interest which we will pay close attention to is the highly “inauthentic” nature of these online courtships—not necessarily in the sense of the emotions evoked, but rather the fact that all parties do not focus on interrogating whether or not the other avatar with whom they are interacting is a catfish: anyway, it is assumed that they are. Instead, they focus on building a relationship based on this underlying assumption. In this way, such relationships are seen as real even if the underlying foundations are highly suspicious or probably fake. We will see a specific example of an unmasked catfish in this section, while the discussion of social capital theory further discusses how individually constructed social relationships can impact one’s social capital.

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The creation of digital avatars is laborious and varied. Participants have explained that it takes a considerable amount of time and effort to design an avatar that best reflects aspects of themselves in different ways. On the milder end, avatars may feature just minor modifications—real photos are slightly altered, names spelled slightly differently and minute details of life events exaggerated or distorted. More extreme avatars have completely different identities by way of personal identifiers (e.g. image, name, age, gender, location, race, religion). However, most respondents chose a middle path and created avatars which bore some resemblance to themselves, while also including elements of mythmaking. Nevertheless, it is important to note the amount of labour put into the creation of these avatars, as Asima and Mariah did. Asima, a 19-year-old who lived at Mile 7 with her parents and other siblings, was unemployed but played a role in managing the household and its finances. She admitted that her friends who had gotten jobs several years back would tease her for being unadventurous and lazy, but part of the reason why she remained unemployed was because she had begun enjoying caring for the family home. “Kali seya mau jadi bini sudah ni (perhaps I am preparing to be a wife)”, she joked. Her decision was meant to conform with her parents’ wishes, since she “misi baby durang (was still their baby)” and they were “takut kana tangkap karaja masa chiking (afraid that she could get arrested during a raid at work)”. Housework is usually heaviest in the morning before everyone leaves for work, but before evening, when everyone returns, Asima has plenty of time to herself. She explained that she was in a series of cinta main-main (playful romances), none of which were serious. She explained that she had found her way into a Telegram group featuring hundreds of members, mostly women. She suspected that most, if not all of them, were migrants like her, since they spoke the same language and discussed similar family issues, owned small businesses and had a shared popular culture. Members also maintained avatars on other platforms and encouraged friends to connect with them outside Telegram. Building on these connections, she was able to meet more people, this time mostly men. What she enjoyed was the thrill of make-believe via her avatar, “A.J.”, experimenting with different styles and personalities that changed depending on her mood. Siok seya … buli macam main patung … saya lah bukan durang … kali durang jugak la tu, tapi seya suka ... Ada masa seya macam rockers sikit,

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ada juga seya bikin muka guna apps macam Ariana Grande, kasi rambut macam ekor kuda bagitu. Aritu seya bilang, birthday seya, saja seya kasi la..tipu bah tu…trus adalah dua tiga kawan laki kan, bilang, “wow, happy birthday” … mau kasi bunga la, mau kasi kiss la. Katawa jak saya situ. Best jugak oh. (I’m having fun … It’s like playing with dolls … I’m the doll, not them … well, maybe them too, but it’s fun for me … There was once I was a rocker, and another time I used an app to look like Ariana Grande (the popular American singer) and gave myself a ponytail … The other day I said it was my birthday, just for fun … It wasn’t true … And immediately, there were two or three male friends, who said, “wow, happy birthday” … they wanted to give me flowers, kisses. I just laughed. It was fun.)

For these women, digital avatars not only enable them to create aesthetically appealing versions of themselves, with the option of transcending everyday realities, but also support networks not often found in their daily lives. As mentioned, the pressure on single migrant women to conform to communal demands are great and opportunities to seek affirmation and camaraderie are limited, thus leaving them with little agency. Social media and digital avatars allow for some sense of control, where the desire to connect can be manifested. “Bila-bila jak seya online bagini. Mau bakanalan kan? (I can go online anytime. To meet people, right?)”, said Mariah, a 30-year-old single mother of two boys who also lived at Mile 7. She was once married to a man called Hakim, whom she said was only interested in other women and drugs. After six years of marriage, she finally got her family’s approval to leave him. While the thought of stability was appealing, Mariah said that it would be a case of “cari penyakit jak tu (looking for trouble)”, and she used her children as an excuse to prevent her from ever remarrying. To make their ends meet, she worked overtime as a for-hire house cleaner around Sandakan. Between her daily appointments, Mariah could pay attention to her online profile. Since her divorce a year prior, she turned to Facebook to keep abreast with other friends who were also domestic helpers. This network helped her meet some mutual friends, most of whom were men. As she explains: When I first started I was a little shy and embarrassed. I had no pictures with make up or nice clothes on. I didn’t want to come across as bidak (ugly). But some of my online friends showed me some apps that can make you look younger, thinner and even help apply “makeup”. I looked good.

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Mariah said that not all relationships were necessarily romantic, and some platonic connections were sincere about looking out for her. One male friend, “Johnny”, even suggested that she change her avatar’s name to prevent her ex-husband from finding her profile. She did, and later decided to go as “Riza”. She later revealed that she and Johnny were seeing each other. “Seya mau macam … kasi baru lah samua … tida payah lah lagi mau yang lama-lama (I wanted to have everything be new … No more old things)”, she explained. For Mariah, her digital avatar became an extension of herself which was “tulen dari hati (sincere, from the heart)”, giving her the ability to start friendships and relationships with individuals who supported and respected one another. Participants added that such atypical online romances via their avatars offered the freedom to steer relationships into directions not afforded to them in real life. The novelty was described as daunting yet pleasurable, but most importantly, educational. Firstly, online avatars offer glimpses into relationships without the need for commitment or the pressure of settling down. This is important, since all participants, regardless of personal relationship histories, mentioned the potential for divorce in forced marriages. Thus, cyber relationships provide intimacy and romance without societal expectations. There is also the freedom to attempt relationships with other online connections of different races, religions and sometimes genders. However, while two participants admitted to having romantic feelings for and sharing intimacy with other avatars of the same sex, none admitted to being queer and were not comfortable with that label. One was Rimi, a 29-year-old woman who worked at a plywood factory at Mile 17 in Lahad Datu. Rimi moved to Sabah at the age of five because her parents were pursuing a better life away from Mindanao. She said that she was almost arrested in a neighbourhood raid, but through some under-the-table negotiations with the ketua kampung (village chief), the raid was called off. It wasn’t long afterwards that Rimi decided to pursue a job in the neighbouring district of Sandakan, approximately two hours away by road, after moving away from her family. She explained that she had been single her whole life, without much interest in getting married. “Beliauku mau main paksa bah, mintak seya kawin capat, bilang tua suda seya ni. Nanti kalau chiking, ada suami mau jaga sama seya (My father tried to force me into marriage, with the excuse that I was already old. He said that if there was another raid, a husband could protect me)”, she said when I asked why she left her village. But Rimi was not interested

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in the candidates whom her family found, and felt that if she didn’t leave soon, she would have to marry one of them eventually. When I broached the subject of romance and if she was ever interested in it, Rimi bashfully said that she had experienced online love recently, and it was as good as she could ever imagine. Eventually, she opened up about being in a relationship with a woman of Chinese descent ten years her senior, a case study which offers a strong indication of how these avatars are also functional. They met on WeChat, a multipurpose messaging, social media and mobile payment app that was incredibly popular amongst Sabahans at the time of fieldwork. Her connection with the woman was purely happenstance, and while she spoke about it in a hushed tone, Rimi said that all her close friends knew. She described the relationship as being perfect and caring, because even if they have never met (and according to Rimi, it would probably never happen due to uncertainties about each other’s true identities), her partner still sent her gifts in the form of phone credit, which she primarily used for spending time together online. This in-kind gain was certainly not unique, with many respondents also admitting to enjoying such aspects of their online relationships. Ultimately, when it comes to digital avatars, respondents understand the risk of catfishing. Interestingly, this possibility is educational in two ways. The first is that they acquire the skill of recognising and understanding the specific rules and traits of other avatars, one which usually takes time to sharpen. To the trained eye, there are ways of determining the authenticity of their counterparts—usually a person of interest gives themselves away when they are unable to keep a story straight, straying from their original narrative by mentioning the wrong hometown or job description, for example. More subtly, their phrases or diction may be different between one conversation and another. “M”, a 36-year-old Suluk woman in the midst of separating from her husband, spent months getting to know “Robby”, a salesman from Kota Kinabalu. At the time of fieldwork, she was contemplating ending their online romance, since she believed that Robby was a catfish. She had met him through another online friend when she was browsing for new people to meet, and found Robby in a group for Sabahan entrepreneurs. Her suspicions were aroused by the sudden change in the terms of endearment that Robby used the moment once they switched from online chats to telephone calls. Robby told her that he was Eurasian and was

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more comfortable speaking to her in English—which she found to be an attractive quality. However, he could not keep up this pretence. Tau sudah tu, mimang bah tu, dia panggil sama seya, “sayang … sayang”, tapi aritu dia bilang “honey … honey” dalam chat … bukak mulut dalam fon tau bah itu lidah dusun bah tu, bukan campur tu. (I knew it, I’m certain, he called me “sayang … sayang (lit. “love”)”, but the other day he said “honey … honey” in the chat … when he opened his mouth over the phone, I knew this was a Dusun man’s voice, and not a person of mixed ethnicity.)

M also explained that it was off-putting how Robby had been so careless—interestingly, she expected him to be pandai-pandai (cautious). “Jan kamu bilang-bilang seja, macam urang teda utak (Don’t just talk like a person without a brain)”, she said. Her frustration was not because he was inauthentic, but that he did not skilfully keep up with the rules of online courtship—i.e. respectfully keeping the narrative going at all costs. I am also playing, not revealing who I am completely, but I was honest about my feelings. I consider cakap-cakap masa bacinta (romantic conversation) to be real, and if you say it to me, it cannot be part of the main-main (game). But if your romantic words are themselves guyang (lit. “shaky”, but colloquially “inconsistent”), kira hati kau pun guyang jugak (that means your feelings are inconsistent too).

This then leads to my second point—that the women accepted the limitations of online courtships. They feel that most such courtships would not lead to actual marriages, hence their natural deaths are to be expected. These migrant women possess a self-awareness and knowledge that they too can be caught for presenting a larger-than-life version of themselves, which could result badly. Failed relationships may hurt, so the key to surviving is never taking them too seriously.

Social Capital of Online Romances Returning to Bordieu, three concepts can be derived from social capital theory: (1) bonding; (2) bridging; and (3) the linking of networks (Johnson-Singh et al. 2017). These are distinguished by how many shared identities one possesses within the particular group which they socialise or associate with. The structures and dynamics of such relationships vary,

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impacting how an individual perceives ideas of trust and reciprocity, which are further reinforced by culturally specific norms, values and attitudes (p. 2). I will discuss each of them in turn below. Specifically, bonding refers to “relations of trust and cooperation among people with [a] similar social identity” such as age, class and ethnicity; bridging refers to “relations of respect and mutuality among people unlike in social identity but more or less equal in their status or power”; and the linking of networks is explained as “norms of respect and networks of trusting relationships between people who are interacting across explicit, formal or institutionalized power or authority gradients in society” (Szreter and Woolcock 2004, p. 655, quoted in Chen and Meng 2015). The concept of bonding can be seen in, for example, those with the strongest ties to other individuals who share a wider range of social identities and require support from their networks (e.g. Kim/Alanis). For participants such as Asima and Rimi, they relied on bridging, where one often relies on relationships with a larger but less frequently interactedwith network to meet others. Lastly, the linking of networks can be seen in relationships that involve a single point of authority in the network (e.g. M’s experience with Robby). The idea here is that while circumstances may differ for each person, social capital has offered these women a chance to virtually enter a larger part of society, from which they would otherwise be excluded. Since the marginalised are often made to feel excluded from society, the solution lies in bridging social gaps (Chong et al. 2020). Such communities are crippled by a slew of social problems (e.g. mental health issues, domestic and drug abuse), where class and social status disparities in terms of access to economic and social resources are glaring—thus, a chance to increase one’s social capital helps create access to stronger, more powerful and meaningful networks (Dale and Newman 2010). With that, the intersectionality in increased social capital should also be addressed to bridge the gaps between marginalised communities and individuals of different races, religions and genders: factors which further complicate how social capital is gained (Volla 2006). Women generally derive different benefits and comforts from social groups that are distinct from those of men, and some scholars see women as occupying “family-oriented” roles within their networks, given that they are likelier to be economically dependent on men (Ferlander et al.

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2016). For migrant women, achieving social capital is much more difficult given that traditional gender roles still determine power structures in their immediate society. Despite gender gaps, there is also evidence of the impact of social capital on women’s well-being—they can express themselves through these networks and as a result experience lower depression rates (ibid.; Valencia-Garcia et al. 2012). However, research on mental health and its links to social capital needs to be further expanded. Current research shows a positive correlation between social capital and mental health with familial bonds or a treasured network, but vice versa where external associations are involved (correlated instead to stress and depression) (Ferlander et al. 2016). The same research also suggests that women from poorer economic backgrounds also experience some difficulty penetrating better-off social circles and run a higher risk of developing mental illnesses. Similarly, my participants initially found it difficult to enter certain online social circles, mostly due to financial constraints which affected their ownership of smart devices and daily data access. Other than that, introductions to the digital culture of avatar-making and finding the right online groups to meet romantic partners can often take time and effort. But when women’s experiences intersect with those of the migrant body, the outcomes are different. Migrant networks involve interpersonal bonds built on similar experiences, camaraderie, trust and collective identity, which are especially helpful for adapting to new places and situations (Prayitno et al. 2014). This is evident in most of the above cases, even for Rimi (who was involved with a possibly non-migrant Chinese woman whom she felt was able to communicate in a way that was culturally acceptable), thus creating a bond built on trust. While building on special bonds is important in difficult circumstances, migrants often weigh how common denominators (such as ethnicity and religion) can be more socioeconomically advantageous in the long run (e.g. in terms of accommodation, translation and access to other important communities) (Ryan et al. 2008). This process is easier for more experienced migrants, who have found social loopholes to aid survival, thus attracting many younger and less experienced members of their community and raising their own social standing (Hlatshwayo and Wotela 2018). Other issues to consider are the ways in which identities, skills and knowledge continue to be shaped and changed through these networks, thus showing us how social capital is an essential tool for developing the resilience of marginalised communities—one that is especially noticeable

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amongst youths (Bottrell 2009). On a positive note, social capital theory helps us to examine relationships built on mutual trust and its resulting influences on a healthy well-being (Raymond-Flesch et al. 2017). For the women in this study, gaining access to online networks has helped them feel liberated and offered more information about themselves and their surroundings. However, scholars have also cautioned us that not everyone enjoys the same degree of accessibility to these networks, which in turn often lead to the unequal distribution of benefits (Bottrell 2009). There are some limitations of this study, and a few stray points that deserve further consideration are as follows. It is important to determine whether these women are representative of their group—in other words, whether most young irregular migrant women used avatars in this manner. For those who do not engage in self-representation through digital avatars, are they specifically looking for romance and the chance to gain social capital, or do we find them largely presenting themselves authentically, i.e. just as they are? How different are such behaviours from those of normal Sabahan women, who are divorced from the landscape of uncertainty which irregular migrants inhabit? It is not uncommon for women of all legal statuses to look for community and camaraderie in online spaces, but an interrogation of their digital methods layered with other intersections can offer novel insights. Finally, given the artificiality of the situation, it is important to again highlight that everyone involved sees such online courtships as “theatrical performances” to a certain extent. At the time of writing, none of the women interviewed actually married the people whom they met online, and perhaps simply viewed these online relationships as a form of escapism. However, this study was limited in temporal terms, and so we are left asking: (1) how long the women were able to maintain the façade; and (2) what were the resulting implications for their personal social capital? Could using avatars in this manner be seen as a subversion of the ordinary societal norms governing physical social capital spaces, and as such, are online courtships a way to curate or control one’s social value?

Conclusion This chapter began by interrogating the ways in which marginalised persons use social media to create spaces of safety and curate content for themselves, despite their chaotic reality. Migrants in Sabah are often left

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in precarious and distressing circumstances, where they are considered illegal, dangerous and threatening to its politics and economy. Exacerbating this issue are the ways in which migrants are used as political pawns, further creating social tensions between them and the local community. Thus, it has become commonplace to frame survival in terms of evading laws and regulations. Here, we focus on irregular migrant women, who are subject to the same regulatory policies of detention and deportation as men—yet they must also ensure the safety and well-being of their children and families as per cultural demands. They are made to feel that obediently marrying quickly will help anchor their community, thus offering a semblance of normalcy in their ecosystem. But while most abided, these participants expressed a desire for different types of relationships, as a way of escaping the demands of their communities. Digital avatars allow them to better express their desired identities, with an interest in connecting with romantic and non-romantic networks, regardless of differences in class, gender, sexuality, race, religion, nationality and so on. The labour that goes into creating digital avatars requires time, experience and effort, and not all attempts at experiencing online romance are successful. Oftentimes avatars can lead to meetings with questionable personalities and situations, but for the women in this study, the good outweighs the bad—they experience not just new opportunities for friendship, romance and business but also new perspectives on empathy and shortcomings. By employing Bourdieu’s conception of social capital, we can better understand the power that these avatars have provided to women in their everyday lives, thus giving them the chance and agency to design a personality and new reality which better suits them. Social capital is ultimately about building new relationships to improve one’s quality of life. In everyday life, these women do not believe that they can ever be offered the chance to network and interact with the circles which they have met online. Their personal and even professional growth is agentive and provides some social mobility amidst disarray. Their digital avatars are important not just for maintaining newfound intimacy and romance, but also for creating powerful images of personal independence, maturity and agency that could not have happened otherwise. In a discussion of women who choose not to engage in traditional relationships but replace them with online courtships instead, this may strongly indicate their rejection of social expectations. Hence, this particular impact is worth looking more deeply into in future studies.

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Haddad, E. (2007). Danger Happens at the Border. In P.K. Rajaram & C. Grundy-Warr (Eds.), Borderscapes: Hidden Geographies and Politics at Territory’s Edge (pp. 119–36). University of Minnesota Press. Hlatshwayo, N., & Wotela, K. (2018). Social Capital as Survival Strategy for Immigrants in South Africa: A Conceptual Framework. IntechOpen. https:// doi.org/10.5772/intechopen.72063 Johnson-Singh, C., Rostila, M., Svensson, A., & Engström, K. (2017). The Role of Social Capital in Explaining Mental Health Inequalities Between Immigrants and Swedish-Born: A Population-Based Cross-Sectional Study. BMC Public Health, 17. https://doi.org/10.1186/s12889-016-3955-3 Kassim, A., & Zin, R.H.M. (2011). Policy on Irregular Migrants in Malaysia: An Analysis of its Implementation and Effectiveness. Philippine Institute for Development Studies (PIDS Discussion Paper Series, No. 2011–34). Lai, N. (2013, May 23). Population Rise a Result of Marriages Between Foreigners and Sabahans—Officer. The Borneo Post. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.theborneopost.com/2013/05/23/population-risea-result-of-marriages-between-foreigners-and-sabahans-officer/. Accessed 22 November 2020. Lamont, M., & Lareau, A. (1998). Cultural Capital: Allusions, Gaps and Glissandos in Recent Theoretical Developments. Sociological Theory, 6(2), 153–168. https://doi.org/https://doi.org/10.2307/202113 Hilsdon, A. (2006). Migration and Human Rights: The Case of Filipino Muslim Women in Sabah, Malaysia, Women’s Studies International Forum, 29(4): 405–416. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.wsif.2006.05.003 Hoang, L.A., & Yeoh, B.S.A. (2014). “I’d Do It for Love or for Money”: Vietnamese Women in Taiwan and the Social Construction of Female Migrant Sexuality. Gender, Place & Culture. https://doi.org/10.1080/0966369X. 2014.885892 Laing, O. (2016). The Lonely City: Adventures in the Art of Being Alone. Picador. Lasimbang, H.B., Tong, W.T., & Low, W.Y. (2016). Migrant Workers in Sabah, East Malaysia: The Importance of Legislation and Policy to Uphold Equity on Sexual and Reproductive Health and Rights. Best Practice & Research Clinical Obstetrics & Gynaecology, 32, 113–123. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. bpobgyn.2015.08.015 Maclean, D. (2014). Marriage Migrants and Commercial Marriage Trafficking in South Korea: Mapping the Current Legal Regime and Gaps in Addressing Exploitation. KLRI Journal of Law and Legislation, 4(1). Nah, A.M. (2007). Struggling with (Il)Legality: The Indeterminate Functioning of Malaysia’s Borders for Asylum Seekers, Refugees, and Stateless Persons. In P.K. Rajaram & C. Grundy-Warr (Eds.), Borderscapes: Hidden Geographies and Politics at Territory’s Edge (pp. 35–64). University of Minnesota Press.

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Nahapiet, J., & Ghoshal, S. (1998). Social Capital, Intellectual Capital, and the Organizational Advantage. The Academy of Management Review, 23(2), 242– 266. Nannestad, P., Svendsen, G.L.H., & Svendsen, G.T. (2008). Bridge Over Troubled Water? Migration and Social Capital. Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies, 34, 607–631. https://doi.org/10.1080/13691830801961621 Prayitno, G., Matsushima, K., Hayeong, J., & Kobayashi, K. (2014). Social Capital and Migration in Rural Area Development. Procedia Environmental Sciences, 20, 543–552. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.proenv.2014.03.067 Rajaram, P.K., & Grundy-Warr, C. (2004). The Irregular Migrant as Homo Sacer: Migration and Detention in Australia, Malaysia, and Thailand. International Migration, 42, 33–64. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.0020-7985.2004. 00273.x ———. (2007). Introduction. In P. K. Rajaram & C. Grundy-Warr (Eds.), Borderscapes: Hidden Geographies and Politics at Territory’s Edge (pp. ix–xl). University of Minnesota Press. Raymond-Flesch, M., Auerswald, C., McGlone, L., Comfort, M., & Minnis, A. (2017). Building Social Capital to Promote Adolescent Wellbeing: A Qualitative Study with Teens in a Latino Agricultural Community. BMC Public Health, 17(1), 177. https://doi.org/10.1186/s12889-017-4110-5 Riaño, Y. (2015). Latin American Women Who Migrate for Love: Imagining European Men as Ideal Partners. In B. Enguix & J. Roca (Eds.), Rethinking Romantic Love: Discussions, Mobilities and Practices (pp. 45–60). Scholars Publishing. Ryan, L., Sales, R., Tilki, M., & Siara, B. (2008). Social Networks, Social Support and Social Capital: The Experiences of Recent Polish Migrants in London. Sociology, 42(4), 672–690. https://doi.org/10.1177/0038038508091622 Uphoff, N., & Wijayaratna, C.M. (2000). Demonstrated Benefits from Social Capital: The Productivity of Farmer Organizations in Gal Oya, Sri Lanka. World Development, 28(11), 1875–1890. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0305750X(00)00063-2 Ussher, J.M., Perz, J., Metusela, C., Hawkey, A.J., Morrow, M., Narchal, R., et al. (2017). Negotiating Discourses of Shame, Secrecy and Silence: Migrant and Refugee Women’s Experiences of Sexual Embodiment. Archives of Sexual Behaviour, 46, 1901–1921. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-016-0898-9 Valencia-Garcia, D., Simoni, J.M., Alegria, M., & Takeuchi, D. (2012). Social Capital, Acculturation, Mental Health, and Perceived Access to Services Among Mexican American Women. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 80, 177–185. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0027207 Somiah, V. (2019). Romantic Whispers: When Relationships Mobilise Political Agency in the Sabah Elections. In S. Lemiere (Ed.), Minorities Matter:

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Malaysian Politics and People Volume III (pp. 36–51). ISEAS–Yusof Ishak Institute. ———. (2021). Irregular Migrants and the Sea at the Borders of Sabah, Malaysia: Pelagic Alliance. Palgrave Macmillan. Spires, R., & Cox, J.T. (2016). Addressing Social Capital for Disadvantaged Youth: Youth and Teacher Perception of a Youth Development Programme in Hong Kong. Cogent Social Sciences, 2(1). https://doi.org/10.1080/233 11886.2016.1191105 Szreter, S., & Woolcock, M. (2004). Health by Association? Social Capital, Social Theory, and the Political Economy of Public Health. International Journal of Epidemiology, 33(4), 650–667. pmid:15282219 Volla, A. (2006, January). Social Capital: Strengthening Women Through Networks [Conference presentation]. Strength Based Strategies, Hyderabad.

Vilashini Somiah is an anthropologist and a senior lecturer in the Gender Studies Programme at the University of Malaya. She received a doctorate in Southeast Asian Studies from the National University of Singapore and is passionate about the narratives and agency of Bornean women, migrants and indigenes, as well as sexual and gender minorities, who are often underrepresented. She co-edited Sabah from the Ground: The 2020 Elections and the Politics of Survival (SIRD and ISEAS–Yusof-Ishak Institute, 2021) and authored Irregular Migrants and the Sea at the Borders of Sabah, Malaysia: Pelagic Alliance (Palgrave Macmillan, 2022).

CHAPTER 5

Grateful Politics: Rohingya and Social Media in the Time of the Pandemic Nursyazwani

and Aslam Abd Jalil

Introduction We as the citizens of Malaysia want the Malaysian government to CLEANSE and PURIFY those foreign residents who are growing in number in Malaysia now to protect the HARMONY and PURITY of Malaysia. We have done enough good and served those foreigners, specifically the ethnic Rohingya, because they are the ones who have committed the most crimes and have caused a lot of trouble in our beloved country [sic]. Whereas Myanmar citizens themselves rejected and took up arms against ethnic Rohingya because of the latter’s character that likes

Nursyazwani (B) Department of Anthropology, Penn Museum, Philadelphia, PA, USA e-mail: [email protected] A. Abd Jalil School of Social Science, The University of Queensland, St Lucia, QLD, USA

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_5

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demanding EQUAL RIGHTS MORE THAN THEY DESERVE!!! They [Rohingya] use RELIGION as a way to make the WORLD feel sorry for them. (A petition in 2020, translation from Malay to English ours).

In an online petition addressed to then Prime Minister, Muhyiddin Yassin, Malaysian internet users (colloquially “netizens”) called for the deportation of Rohingya refugees living in Malaysia. Expressing their outrage at Zafar Ahmad Abdul Ghani, the founder and president of the Myanmar Ethnic Rohingya Human Rights Organization Malaysia, some have called Zafar out for being so bold as to demand “equal rights” and consequently projected this anger at the rest of the local Rohingya community. By 4 May 2020, the petition had already garnered 127,489 digital signatures, with many echoing its sentiments in the comments section. But while Zafar had indeed been actively advocating for Rohingya rights locally, the lack of a united political front among refugees meant that he was not regarded as their collective “voice”.1 The resulting xenophobic attacks against him, his family and the Rohingya in Malaysia in general occurred through fabricated and orchestrated hate messages on social media—as it transpired, Zafar was falsely accused of writing the Facebook post in question that led to the petition’s circulation (Malaysiakini 2020)—suggested that the actions of netizens underlined two implied messages: (1) that refugees should not be political agents; and (2) that the Rohingya are troublemakers. Given that Malaysia was once a sanctuary for Rohingya refugees escaping Myanmar state-led ethnic genocide (Zaidatul 2021), this turn to racism and xenophobia—closely tied to the COVID-19 cluster at Selayang market, which was seen as a Rohingya enclave—reveals their precarity, not to mention that of other refugees, all of whom live in a state of legal ambiguity. At the same time, as will be discussed further in the next section, it is not surprising that racism came to the fore— as Azis (2014) and Hoffstaedter (2017) have shown, the racialisation of Rohingya refugees through orientalist and colonial frames have only made their bodies less “grievable” than those of others (Butler 2016).

1 We learned about the lack of unity through conversations with Rohingya interlocutors. Many attribute this to differing politics, including agreements on approaches to make their claims to rights heard and recognition of other community/political leaders among the Rohingya locally.

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The pandemic, in a sense, only served to highlight these sentiments, especially in the context of economic insecurity and vulnerability experienced by many Malaysians. To suggest that Rohingya refugees are demanding “equal rights [which are supposedly] more than they deserve” underscores the ways in which they, as subjects of humanitarian order, are expected to be passive and “grateful” for the assistance that has been rendered to them (Feldman 2018; Hyndman 2001). In discussions on the politics of gratitude, the construction of the “grateful subject” is a coproduction by the host and refugee figures themselves (Moulin 2012; Besteman 2016). Therefore, we aim to complicate the discourse surrounding “grateful refugees” by looking at the ways in which the Rohingya appropriate this term through their use of social media to combat xenophobia. While the staggering number of supporters of this petition offers an insight into the current socio-political climate, particularly, intriguing is the use of social media to perpetrate hate speech against the Rohingya despite these spaces being often lauded as allowing for the proliferation of marginalised voices, thus challenging the democratising nature often attributed to social media (Highfield 2016). Conversely, social media has enabled the propagation of extremist ideas and dangerous politics, further undermining the voices of the oppressed (Ekman 2018, 2019; Ozerim and Tolay 2020). Facebook, for instance, has been accused of being complicit in the perpetration of Myanmar’s attacks on its minorities (New York Times 2018; Venier 2019). Over the course of our digital ethnography in 2020, during the COVID-19 pandemic in Malaysia, we observed how refugee and migrant communities were further silenced by those in positions of power, including ordinary Malaysian citizens. Petitions, such as the one cited above, circulated fear, anxiety, hatred and anger directed towards Rohingya refugees. The pandemic therefore offers an entry point into understanding the potential of and tensions on social media, marking an event that revealed the anxieties of both local and refugee populations. As a recent IPSOS (2021) survey suggests, 82% of Malaysians wanted borders to be closed entirely to refugees, a drastic increase from 43% in 2019. These anxieties about their status in Malaysia were most obviously seen on social media, and the abovementioned petition marks a mutual feeling among locals, thus signifying a collective effervescence that was now directed against Rohingya refugees. COVID-19 thus revealed Malaysia’s long-standing

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and long-simmering xenophobia and racism, thus making it a productive site for us to discuss the implications of social media democratisation (or otherwise). More so, the blurring of their online and offline worlds has implications for the realities of Rohingya refugees’ lived experiences, which consequently led to the further policing of their voices. Although much of the hatred can be attributed to the lack of attention paid to Malaysia’s economic underclass and its current state of affairs, social media also affords us a window into understanding the relationship between both refugees and local society, and the workings of humanitarianism and development in producing (or reducing) their “bare lives”. In this chapter, we define social media activity as “practices specific to individual platforms and reflective of social media cultures … which are also rooted in wider social, political and technological contexts and norms” (Highfield 2016, pp. 6–7). We posit, in line with scholars such as Zhang and Kizilcec (2014), Kim et al. (2018) as well as Isin and Ruppert (2015), that social media shapes the (infra)structure and patterns of narratives posted, published or shared on social media accounts. Through the Rohingya’s use of social media, we explore how they take on the dominant narrative and employ the trope of gratefulness to make claims and question the varying tensions on social media. This is important for highlighting the ways in which marginalised communities digitally navigate the intersections of precarity and promise. To do so, we will present the Malaysian context with a focus on COVID-19—specifically taking some inciting incidents around Selayang into consideration—and its implications for Rohingya refugees, before reviewing the literature surrounding social media and everyday politics. We then examine how Rohingya refugees explore and utilise social media to navigate their everyday realities, concluding with a review of its potential for transforming the Rohingya into agentic, political subjects.

The Rohingya, Refugees and Malaysia in the Time of the Pandemic The Rohingya were formally rendered stateless through the introduction of the 1982 Burma citizenship law, which only recognised 135 ethnic groups. Ever since its passing, they have been systematically discriminated against, and in January 2020, the International Court of Justice ordered Myanmar to take all measures to prevent the alleged genocide against them, where some incidents were particularly noticeable during military

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operations in 2017 (Agence France-Presse 2022). Although Malaysia has hosted hundreds of thousands of refugees over past decades, it is still not party to the United Nations’ 1951 Refugee Convention. Without a formal legal status, all refugees—Rohingya or otherwise—have no access to formal employment and education opportunities, while having only limited access to health care. As of the latest figures, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) in Malaysia has registered 181,510 refugees and asylum-seekers, with the majority hailing from Myanmar (UNHCR 2021). The Rohingya form the largest population among the Myanmar refugees, numbering 103,560. However, our conversations with activists and humanitarian actors from both local and Rohingya groups suggest that these statistics are too modest—if one includes the Rohingya who have yet to be registered with the UNHCR, their population could easily surpass 200,000. However, because Malaysia does not have any legal or administrative refugee framework, the Immigration Act of 1959/63 considers refugees as undocumented migrants. With that being said, Order No. 23 of the National Security Council acknowledges the status of refugees as “illegal immigrant UNHCR cardholders”2 and the Attorney-General’s Chambers issued a circular in 2005 specifically prohibiting the prosecution of registered refugees on the basis of immigration offences (UNHCR 2016). Yet refugees remain vulnerable to arrest, harassment and even deportation afterwards, especially since Malaysia’s attitude towards them follows the ebbs and flows of domestic politics and interests. For instance, former Prime Minister Najib Razak used the Rohingya issue as political capital by organising an umma solidarity rally in 2016, attempting to gain political support from his political foes and the public (Hutt 2016). This proved to be a highly salient action, despite departing considerably from his earlier stance of keeping Rohingya refugees and asylum-seekers out of Malaysia (Ekklesia and Fitriani 2018). The rhetoric of “Muslim solidarity” thus suggests the ways by which the state exploits both this ideal and a humanitarian agenda for political leverage (Jalil 2020). Although the Rohingya crisis only appeared to gain visible prominence in Malaysia from the mid-2010s onwards, our research shows that they have been arriving since the 1970s, with the majority coming in waves after the 2012 Rakhine state riots. While this attraction is partly due to 2 Additionally, Order No. 16 pertains to the management of Filipino refugees in Sabah and the neighbouring federal territory of Labuan.

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Malaysia’s perceived identity as a Muslim country, Rohingya interlocutors from both Myanmar and the refugee camps in Bangladesh often shared that they wanted to join their families and networks here, or else were in search of better opportunities. Although the Malaysian government emphasises their temporality, in practice, there are no deadlines to their stay since refugee resettlement to third countries may take years or even decades. As a result, there have been generations of refugees in Malaysia who are either unable to return to Myanmar or still awaiting resettlement. Many adopted Malay cultural practices as part of their survival strategies, including sartorial choices (e.g., wearing traditional Malay clothes), speaking the language or even adopting Malay names (Hoffstaedter 2017). While this entailed the abandonment of a Rohingya identity (Muniandy 2021, p. 84), various factors still prevent them from “becoming Malay” (masuk Melayu) (Azis 2012, p. 33). O’Brien and Hoffstaedter (2020) thus argue that such losses only serve to demonstrate the pervasiveness of the ongoing genocide against the Rohingya. Despite shared religious beliefs with Malaysia’s majority Malay community, Islam is not sufficient as political currency to include them within the political community, hence we observe: (1) the tempering of the concept of umma with racism rooted in ethnic and/or class stereotypes (Azis 2014; Hoffstaedter 2017); and (2) anxieties due to increasing numbers of refugees, which appear to threaten national sovereignty and security (KiniTV 2021). These factors underpin an exclusion and marginalisation that became especially pervasive during the pandemic, which then generated a surge of xenophobia and racism directed toward migrant populations worldwide (UN News 2020; Nursyazwani 2020). Locally, one can observe how Rohingya refugees became the focal point of targeted attacks. Hate speech spread through “fake news”, as exemplified in Zafar’s case, were circulated online regarding Rohingya demands for Malaysian citizenship and equal rights (Free Malaysia Today 2020). Additionally, the perception that the Rohingya were the cause of COVID-19’s spread sparked public outrage and reinforced statelevel discriminatory policies (Walden 2020). Responding to this growing hostility, the home affairs minister issued a press statement online, reaffirming exactly what their “refugee” status meant—“UNHCR cardholders from ethnic Rohingya have no status, rights and basis to demand anything from the Government” (Bernama 2020). Here, we can again see how precarious the refugee condition is in Malaysia, where the online world has implications for their offline realities.

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Anti-Rohingya Sentiment on Social Media As mentioned earlier, cyberbullying and the abuse of online spaces have left Rohingya users more vulnerable, where the ability to be anonymous has encouraged the circulation of controversial content among wider audiences (Zhang and Kizilcec 2014). Zafar’s case resulted in a massive backlash among netizens, who directed their condemnation towards not just him but the entire community, exacerbated by the circulation of an audio message on WhatsApp purportedly detailing Rohingya plans to “take over” Selayang as a means of establishing their own territory. Selayang, located in Selangor and bordering Kuala Lumpur, has become an ethnic enclave for refugees and migrants, who mostly work at its two big wholesale markets. Despite public perceptions, according to the president of Rohingya Society in Malaysia (RSM),3 only ten per cent of Selayang’s residents are Rohingya, while the vast majority of foreigners there are other Myanmar Muslims. The rumours translated into further criticism on social media of Rohingya cultural practices and lifestyle habits that were deemed alien and unfit in Malaysian society (see also Latiff and Ananthalakshmi 2020), again bleeding into their everyday reality and daily interactions with the local community, as evidenced by the circulation of videos of locals harassing the Rohingya. Nursyazwani (2020) presents some examples, including an incident where a Rohingya grasscutter was forced to recite the shahadah to prove his Muslim faith, thus drawing the attention of the minister of religious affairs (Chung 2020). As Nursyazwani (2020) notes, online users’ comments about his apparent lack of Islamic knowledge and ethics resulted in his—and the entire Rohingya community’s—labelling as “Shias”, a Muslim sectarian group regularly discriminated against in Malaysia, which “disrupt[ed] the Muslim umma (community) rhetoric that Najib propagated to Malaysian public since late 2016” (Nursyazwani 2020; see also The Star 2018). Such phenomena are not new on Facebook, prompting us to rethink the normative notion of “democratisation”—i.e., that it does not necessarily uplift the marginalised but also carves out spaces for propagating dangerous politics.

3 Of the many Rohingya organisations in Malaysia, only RSM and the Rohingya Women Development Network (RWDN) are officially recognised by the UNHCR.

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One example is the reception to “hate” groups. Within nine days of its creation, a public Facebook group called “Rakyat Malaysia Anti Pendatang Asing Tanpa Izin” (Malaysian Citizens are Anti-illegal Migrants) gained an overwhelming 50,551 followers. Ironically, one of its rules prohibited racist posts against other Malaysian citizens to prevent deletion, but all posts were to be related only to “illegal migrants”, including the Rohingya. While there were other attempts to (re)create the page under similar names, these efforts were deleted from (and possibly by) Facebook. 12 out of 36 pages and groups that were reported by Reuters for such content were also shut down for attempting to incite xenophobia (Latiff and Ananthalakshmi 2020). The platform’s involvement in policing dangerous content may have accounted for the decline in the numbers of members of these groups, but more than that, the tone of these groups themselves. For instance, a diametrically opposed Facebook page called “32 Juta Rakyat Support Rohingya” was created, although it only had only 50 likes as of 8 November 2020. However, what is important to note is the presence of counteractions of groups and individuals on social media against xenophobic and racist discourses. What we are focussed on in this chapter, however, is empowerment, as seen in the growing use of social media by marginalised communities to participate in civil and political society during this pandemic (see also Beta 2020). Social Media and the Everyday Politics of Refugees More often than not, discussions on social media emphasise their potential to articulate political claims. As a tool for the democratisation of voices, these platforms blur the boundaries between the public and private spheres, allowing for the convergence of various actors (Highfield 2016). Everyday actors are thus able to find spaces to voice their opinions and ideas, as well as ways to galvanise action (Tsatsou 2018; Donovan 2018). Nikunen (2019) posits how “selfie activism” serves as a way for refugees in Finland to counter negative perceptions and make political claims— i.e., that they are subjects with rights (see also Marlowe 2020; Dekker et al. 2018; Udwan et al. 2020). These demonstrate how people use social media not only for everyday communication but as a platform for political discussions (Highfield 2016; Beta 2019) in ways that might not necessarily have been possible before.

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In this sense, we suggest the need to be attuned to the everyday use of social media by the Rohingya, as an exercise of everyday politics. However, we are cognisant of the privilege inherent in the ability to actually use social media. Not everyone has access to the internet, nor are they afforded equal space on platforms. As mentioned in our introduction, social media is fraught with dangerous politics and has been used as an oppressive tool—in the case of refugees, they are still seen as subjects of deservingness (Nikunen 2019). For instance, the backlash against Rohingya in Malaysia during the peak of the pandemic was arguably triggered by the Facebook post falsely attributed to Zafar, who in turn suffered mental health issues and feared leaving his home because of death threats (Latiff and Harris 2021). Such experiences show us how it is important to locate the use of social media in the offline world, since such platforms are an extension of the public sphere. Thus, it is imperative that we recognise the inherent inequalities embedded in the use of social media which get amplified online. At the same time, it is also important to recognise how social media has indeed provided a platform for the refugee communities to articulate their voices. In our digital ethnography and conversations with Rohingya interlocutors between February and September 2020, the refugees demonstrated caution regarding social media use being conscious of the ways in which their realities are impacted by the socio-political environment. Growing public disenchantment and opposition bled offline into the political sphere, where Najib Razak (2020) reversed his former advocacy and stated that Malaysia had done enough for them. While one can argue that Najib was pandering to populist politics to bolster his political credibility, especially after the 1MDB financial controversy, we also see a demonstration of how state officials have begun to “cancel” Rohingya refugees (Nursyazwani 2020). But since many Rohingya still engage social media platforms to articulate their politics, how, then, do they navigate this landscape accordingly? The “Grateful Refugee” and Refugee Agency The trope of the “grateful refugee” has been extensively discussed in the literature, where some scholars (e.g., Mason 2011; Carpi 2014; Besteman 2016) posit that state and humanitarian mechanisms discipline refugeeness, positioning them as victims and dependent subjects in need of social

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assistance. This discourse increasingly proliferates on social media, amplifying such labels (Lee and Nerghes 2018). Refugees are not engaged “as active citizens” (Carpi 2014, p. 40) but as humanitarian subjects stripped of political subjectivity. Their “pathologization and passitivization” (Moulin 2012, p. 40) in turn denies them the “capacity to speak politically and the expectation that they will be heard” (Nyers 2006, p. 17), where they are “expected to accept severe restrictions on their freedoms” (Moulin 2012, p. 55) yet “be grateful and to somehow reciprocate the gift” (Moulin 2012, p. 61). Generally, this means using the language of gratitude. Refugees, therefore, coproduce the “grateful refugee” discourse, together with state and/or international mechanisms (Taylor 2016; D’Cruz 2014; Nguyen 2017; Feldman 2018). However, while refugees are expected to—and do—perform in a way that expresses gratitude and deservingness, there are also instances where they refuse such depoliticisation. By exploring the politics and logic of gratitude among Palestinian refugees in Brazil, Moulin (2012, p. 66) shows how they engaged in protests to “reclaim the ‘right to have rights’ … and retak[e] the right to voice their own understanding of their living conditions”. This speaks to the growing scholarship on refugeeness, which underlines their agency even when demonstrating gratitude to galvanise political mobilisation. In this sense, we are intervening into this debate by building upon current scholarship to study how Rohingya refugees exert their agentic capacity even while occupying the liminal position of (not) being licit subjects.

Countering Anti-Rohingya Sentiment In our respective ethnographic fieldwork and research, we learned that Rohingya refugees tend to own smartphones, which they use not just to communicate with their loved ones back in Bangladesh and/or Myanmar, but to conduct their everyday activities, access social media (particularly Facebook) and learn about current issues while engaging in creative and political expressions. Our conversations with interlocutors and observations of their social media usage show that these platforms are often utilised to share personal stories and everyday activities (such as posting “selfies” or photos of outings), certain posts about events surrounding the Rohingya crisis and, at times, personal political opinions. While it seems that social media provides a space for a polyphony of voices, with no regard for hierarchy, it is important to note that this apparently dialogic

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discourse applies only to those with access to the internet (meaning having disposable incomes to own a mobile phone and purchase data plans) and who are at least digitally literate (if not minimally literate). As a result, many users are young people. Moreover, as this section demonstrates, their precarity translates into the (limited) ways in which its affordances can be utilised—nothing too overtly political should be expressed. In conversations with community leaders, we were told that as xenophobic sentiments became more rampant, officers from Special Branch (SB), an intelligence agency within the Royal Malaysian Police, advised the Rohingya to not make any statements on social media that could offend local or state sensitivities. Two leaders, Razak and Rahman (both pseudonyms), shared that an SB officer had advised them during a community meeting that this was the best strategy to mitigate public anger, since the public “endured [a] stressful life due to loss of livelihoods or had much free time [while staying at home] during MCO”. This particular SB unit, which had a good working relationship with the community leaders, assured the latter that the situation would improve over time. Special Branch … gave us the advice not to make a statement. “It will be fine later,” they said. “You don’t need to worry. Just keep silent.” From the police side they said, “you shouldn’t release the statement right now. This is not the time. You shouldn’t do this. Let [the police] see what will [the situation] be.” (From an interview with Razak, 2020)

Rahman, who has been in Malaysia for almost three decades, expressed his frustration with some Rohingya whom he believed had “misused” social media. I have told [the Rohingya community] before. Don’t always talk to the media. Don’t be in the news. Don’t be exposed on social media. (Interview with Rahman, 2020)

What is also apparent is how Rohingya leaders have become complicit in disciplining their own community on social media. Such strategies employed to “tame” the more vocal Rohingya appeared to be effective, resulting in some active Rohingya users shying away from creating or

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sharing any posts, or in some cases, even deleting their accounts altogether. Our conversations also demonstrate how many were shocked and disappointed with Malaysians’ responses and reactions, both online and offline. Jaber (a pseudonym) said that “[i]t is understandable that Myanmar-Buddhists kill us. But I’m truly disappointed with Malaysians. We are Muslims”. Consequently, the online abuse, coupled with abusive comments from “local friends” whom he always played evening football matches with, impacted his mental health. Jaber deactivated his Facebook account shortly afterwards before creating a new account under a pseudonym, with no profile picture or posts that could reveal personal information. Jaber’s situation clearly exemplifies how democratic social media spaces have amplified xenophobia and hate speech, negatively implicating marginalised communities in the real world. For whom are they democratic? If democracy is the rule of the majority, how then do minorities or marginalised groups navigate spaces fraught with inequality? Interestingly, the “32 Juta Rakyat ” page mentioned above was created to counter such hate speech and was also a counterpoint to the “Rakyat Malaysia” group. There were attempts, apparently by Malaysian users, to rationalise the xenophobia and racism—e.g., writing that people were “struggling to adapt to a new form of life” and that “not all Malaysians hate you or despise you for taking asylum in this country” (32 Juta Rakyat 2020). However, with less than 50 followers at the time of writing—mostly composed of Rohingya users themselves—this page is not significant enough to provide an alternative positive discourse. Worse, abusive comments left by netizens reiterate how these “parasites” should never have been welcomed into Malaysia. Yet it is imperative to pay attention to the ways in which one can navigate the constraints of inequality. For instance, group members often shared “controversial” posts, many of which were screenshots of the originals, requesting that other members “please report” the post to Facebook. The phrase became rather pervasive, not just in this Facebook group but also for many new or shared posts, serving as an action to silence or cancel “hate speech”. While several posts were successfully taken down, it was not possible to monitor, let alone report, their overwhelming number. Hence, social media activity is clearly a political tool for the Rohingya—and members of local and international communities—to counter problematic narratives.

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Performing Gratitude “Love me or hate me—let me tell you how I genuinely felt when I was allegedly abused [on] social media during the COVID-19 pandemic lockdown in Malaysia”. This was how Amir Hossen began sharing a response with us, typed up on a Microsoft Word document, in response to our question about how he felt about the backlash against the Rohingya. This was not the first letter he typed which expressed his sentiments about recent events. In fact, his first “love letter” was published on an online newspaper platform, expressing his gratitude to Malaysians before recounting his—and others’—refugee journey(s) (Malaysiakini 2020). Employing emotive language, Amir pleaded for sympathy. My dear brothers and sisters, please accept us with an open heart. We are a traumatised nation, every one of us has a story. We have seen so much bloodshed, our family members including babies, relatives were killed in front of our eyes by the Myanmar government. If there is anything we are doing wrong, please help us understand. We will listen to you. We have no right to argue with you. You are the owner of this land and we are just refugees. (Amir Hossen 2020, emphases ours)

Amir was not the first person to pen such a letter. Abu Bakar Siddik had published a short article, “Dreams of A Rohingya: A Letter from a Rohingya”, employing similar themes that were later echoed in Amir’s article (Free Malaysia Today 2020). A recurring pattern was the deployment of the trope of gratitude to convince Malaysians that the Rohingya were grateful to Malaysia for hosting refugees. Largely a response to growing xenophobic and racist online attacks, Amir, Abu Bakar and others reiterated Malaysia’s hospitality while reaffirming their position—i.e., that they were “just refugees” dependent on the country’s compassionate attitude. Their performance across social media can also be seen in the ways in which the Rohingya called out members of their group (such as Zafar) for allegedly stirring up trouble and resentment. Unlike these purported leaders who did not know their place and did not recognise the kindness of Malaysians, their general population was in fact grateful, emphasising their recognition of Malaysians’ benevolence. In a statement signed by 17 Rohingya groups, they not only strongly condemned Zafar’s rhetoric (despite clarifying later

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that this was a false allegation) but also issued an apology to the government and its citizens (Whether deliberately or not, neither RSM nor RWDN were part of the statement.). Thus, we see an attempt to not only circulate tropes of gratitude but also to disown “ungrateful refugees” who “do not speak for [the Rohingya]” (New Straits Times 2020), further illuminating the ways in which the Rohingya themselves participate in disciplining already marginal voices. In the rest of this section, we will look at how they perform gratitude as an exercise of agency. Refugee Narratives We can build on the idea of gratitude, as expressed in the narratives told by the Rohingya themselves. In a conversation prior to the pandemic, Amina (a pseudonym), a 40-year-old Rohingya woman who arrived in Malaysia in 2016, shared that: “Di sini, tak ada orang tembak-tembak, tak payah risau tentang nyawa kita. Saya rasa syukur sangat dengan Malaysia [Here, there is no one shooting, we don’t have to worry about our lives. I feel so grateful to Malaysia]”. Such sentiments were amplified during the pandemic, when the Rohingya took to sharing them on social media to remind Malaysians that they did not suffer from any “gratitude amnesia”. Instead, they began to create and share posts detailing their harrowing journey—beginning with the discrimination and abuse experienced from the Myanmar state and its military, then detailing their arduous journey at sea and the trauma of trafficking before arriving at their host country, often concluding with a description of Malaysia as a peaceful and safe place, far from the violence that they had to endure.4 See an example of one such post below. Yes, we are Rohingya. And, we are genocide survivors. This is our message for all host countries, Where we are taking our temporary refuge. You gave us a new life when we were about to die, that’s why we are grateful but cannot return your favour even though we wish, because you help and assistances are priceless! 4 Such narratives are not limited to Malaysia, of course—they are also internalised by refugees of other crises elsewhere, as can be seen in novels touching upon the Vietnam War (V. Nguyen 2013).

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We didn’t want to flee Myanmar leaving everything (a beautiful home, land with farm, natural beauty and resources) that we had. But slowly and gradually the government of Myanmar commenced brutality, to eradicate us from our beloved birthplace in Arakan. We miss and will miss our land forever! Nobody wants to leave their birthplace, properties and businesses, but we had no choice but to escape when the government started genocide, mass killing, mass gang rape, throwing our baby child to fire, physical torture and so on. In order to survive, we started an uncertain journey but could go nowhere, only ended up in your country, and became refugees which weren’t our choice. Every Rohingyas have a story behind their journey, a story which is filled with bloodshed, pain, and sorrows, No one chose to become a Refugee!!! We pray your families don’t get uprooted; We pray you won’t have to experience abuse and trauma!!! #RohingyaAlsoHuman #RohingyaHadPride #GratefulRohingya #ThankYouMalaysia #ThankYouBangladesh #ThankYouSaudiArabia #ThankYouMalaysians #ThankYouHumanrightActivists #ThankYouHumanity #ThankYouIndonesia #ThankYouGovtofMalaysian. (Sultan Ahmed Manir, 2020)

In response to the resulting comments that the Rohingya should stop selling these stories to gain sympathy, Rohingya users not only returned to the discourse of gratitude, but also reiterated the authenticity of their stories, humanising the Rohingya figure as a subject deserving of care. What is interesting to note is the tagging of many other Rohingya based not only in Malaysia, but also Bangladesh and elsewhere, in these posts with their “public” setting turned on. Thus, many could share both the original posts and personal stories on their respective profiles. The refugee plight is highlighted as a counter-response to several Malaysians’ claims that Rohingya refugees were merely fabricating stories to gain public sympathy, or that they were taking advantage of Malaysians’ goodwill. These acts thus provide an “opportunity to overcome geographic distance to demonstrate support for, and solidarity with” other Rohingya elsewhere (Highfield 2016, p. 113). Thus, a homogenous international Rohingya narrative emerges, creating an imagined community (in Benedict Anderson’s terms) and a Rohingya solidarity transcending borders.

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Hence, the ongoing genocide attempts, despite what O’Brien and Hoffstaedter (2020) have noted, may be partially countered by the continued consolidation of a borderless identity. But given the need for solidarity, Zafar’s “demands” were therefore seemingly unthinkable—it was crucial that the generosity of the Malaysian state and society be acknowledged. Hashtag Campaigns In sharing these narratives, notions of Malaysian hospitality were always underlined to reiterate gratitude. Most related posts also included hashtags such as #GratefulRohingya and #ThankYouMalaysia—their usage gained traction and became part of a collective action by Rohingya to “counter negativity” circulating on social media. These two hashtag campaigns were also initiated by RWDN and Elom Empowerment (Jalil 2020). Use +hashtags #ThankYouMalaysia, #TerimaKasihMalaysia & #GratefulRohingya etc in every post on FB & Twitter to counter negativity. (Sal Man, 2020)

A cursory search on Facebook for posts using these hashtags yielded various posts created and/or shared by the Rohingya, not just directed to Malaysia but also other countries. We argue that while these campaigns depoliticise their message by appealing to humanity in general, they still allowed the Rohingya to “participate in and contribute to current discourses” (Highfield 2016, p. 120) on ungratefulness. More importantly, collective action—even if only through hashtags—constitute an “everyday practice to provide support, change attitudes and counter prevalent social norms” (ibid.). If they become prominent, then there is a possibility of drowning out racism and xenophobia. Hashtag campaigns thus offer a site of political potentialities, which can make visible and licit the Rohingya presence in Malaysia. They come from ruin in the hope of finding a better life. Loss, grief, and danger surrounds them, but their undiminishable spirit shines through & guides them onward! As the reality of our world and the meaning of home changes, it’s time to understand them, stand with them, #GratefulRohingya #ThankYouMalaysia! #StepWithThem! #WorldRefugeeDay. (Mohd Rofiq, 2020)

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While many of these posts often attracted racist responses from local (and international) individuals, what is important to note is the need for support from Malaysian actors. This situation is not unique to Malaysia, of course, given how right-wing populism and nationalism have gained traction worldwide (Pahnke 2021). Yet some counterpoints often came from Malaysians themselves, i.e., activists, humanitarian actors and ordinary members of society who had encounters with the Rohingya. Drawing upon the language of a shared humanity, compassion and to some extent Islamic ethics, these actors sought to remind commenters that refugees (including the Rohingya) were human beings and also survivors of a genocidal regime. This brings us to the question of the efficacy of social media as a space for marginalised communities, evincing the power dynamics present in society that continue to characterise the online world. And while we cannot refute the inherent social stratification, it is important to look at the ways in which marginalised communities attempt to navigate these constraints as a form of practising politics.

Responses to Petitions We call upon the Malaysian government to allow refugee boats to enter Malaysian waters. Since the middle of April, Malaysia has turned away at least two boats collectively carrying about 600 Rohingya refugees; as a result, more than 60 people died on board due to the lack of fresh water, food and medicines. The latest report says 500 more are stranded in the Bay of Bengal after they have been refused entry by Malaysia …. (Change.org 2020)

Unlike the 28 petitions created on Change.org that garnered thousands of signatures calling for the expulsion of the Rohingya, only one supported the Rohingya presence in Malaysia. Initiated by ReAct (Refugee Action for Change), this petition appeared on a platform called “#HormatNyawa: Save Lives at Sea”, calling on the government to rescue these stranded Rohingya while also observing strict MCO public health protocols. While this petition gained 28,588 signatures as of 22 October 2020, its impact on policy change might have been limited by concerted state efforts to control the spread of COVID-19. The closing of state

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borders to safeguard public health was used as a reason to justify abandoning responsibilities to rescue lives under the international law of the sea. Note that a previous proposal to force the government to respond to petitions, which garnered more than 30,000 signatories, did not materialise (Chu 2018). The ReAct petition drew criticism from Rohingya activists fearing more hostility. They argued that demands to welcome more refugees would only prove that its members had little regard for public health concerns and the rule of law (which prohibited irregular migration). Although there is no formal channel for Rohingya arrival, the view persists that advocating for more arrivals, especially during this period, might cause legal repercussions and reinforce public backlash. While ReAct’s intention was noble, they contradicted the actual wishes of the Rohingya, who wanted to live under the radar especially while xenophobia was rife. Such rhetoric was prevalent among our informants. The need to stay “quiet and not play up our rights” was important so they could “be resettled elsewhere … if people think that we are getting the rights here in Malaysia, then it will be difficult for us to be resettled”, as an interlocutor explained. Thus, downplaying their already limited rights would not only appease local anger—since the Rohingya made clear their gratefulness and did not wish to usurp locals’ rights—but ensure the future possibility of citizenship through resettlement in third countries. It is important to look at these mundane and taken-for-granted acts as forms of political agency to strategically navigate limited spaces.

Conclusion We have explored Rohingya practices on social media through their use of features such as creating and sharing posts, tagging other users and utilising hashtags. Appropriating the language expected of refugees in general, the Rohingya espoused the narratives and tropes of “grateful refugees” as a strategy of mitigating perceptions of their illicit presence, demonstrating why they were deserving of care. We looked at their efforts to “report” anti-Rohingya posts or those spreading “fake news” about Rohingya to Facebook. More so, we examined how they attempted to silence marginal voices within their own community, which they felt were attempting to claim more rights beyond what was “expected” or legal. Since their status is not officially recognised, refugees are placed in more vulnerable situations with limited grievance mechanisms available,

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given their undocumented status. Coupled with their own narratives (such as their harrowing escapes from Myanmar’s state-level persecution) and participation in hashtag campaigns (e.g., #GratefulRohingya and #ThankYouMalaysia”), these efforts collectively yielded a homogenous figure of the “grateful” Rohingya. Although such acts may (re)produce and reiterate discourses of refugees living the “bare life” as depoliticised and passive subjects, we emphasise how such self-representation is important for exercising agency to continue surviving in Malaysia—hence the need to pay attention to social media strategies. Yet support from local actors is often still required to counter hate speech—even if some actions, such as the ReAct petition, may be harmful. What does this mean for the democratisation of social media spaces? First, we acknowledge that social media cannot be treated in binary terms—i.e., as either democratic or undemocratic—but rather as a paradox (Chowdhury 2019). In this ambiguity, the in-betweenness of being (un)democratic, one can locate the potentialities for politics. Here, Rohingya users have drawn attention to their plight, countering narratives of their apparent ungratefulness even at the cost of silencing their own dissenters to maintain internal hegemony. It might be more productive to think about social media as a political tool that may be available to marginalised communities. As sites of political potentialities, they offer insights into injustice, intolerance and abuse, implicating the online and offline worlds—hence, the politicisation of discourses of gratitude to assert their claims to becoming licit subjects.

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Siddik, A.B. (2020, April 29). Dreams from a Rohingya: A Letter to Malaysians. Free Malaysia Today. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://www.freemalay siatoday.com/category/opinion/2020/04/29/dreams-from-a-rohingya-a-let ter-to-malaysians/. Stevenson, A. (2018, November 6). Facebook Admits It Was Used to Incite Violence in Myanmar. New York Times. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/06/technology/myanmarfacebook.html Sultan Ahmed Manir. (2020, May 6). Facebook Post. Retrieved August 8, 2022, from https://www.facebook.com/manir.rhg/videos/677229813076271/. Taylor, B. (2016). “Their Only Words of English Were ‘Thank You’”: Rights, Gratitude and “Deserving” Hungarian Refugees to Britain in 1956. Journal of British Studies, 55, 120–144. The Star (2018). Najib: Malaysia Will Continue to Help Its Muslim Brothers. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/ 2018/01/01/najib-malaysia-will-continue-to-help-its-muslim-brothers/ Tsatsou, P. (2018). Social Media and Informal Organisation of Citizen Activism: Lessons from the Use of Facebook in the Sunflower Movement.” Social Media + Society, Janaury–March, 1–12. https://doi.org/10.1177/205630511775 1384 Udwan, G., Leurs, K., & Alencar, A. (2020). Digital Resilience Tactics of Syrian Refugees in the Netherlands: Social Media + Social Support, Health, and Identity. Social Media + Society, April–June, 1–11. https://doi.org/10.1177/ 2056305120915587 UN News. (2020). COVID-19 Stoking Xenophobia, Hate and Exclusion, Minority Rights Expert Warns. UN News: Global Perspective Human Stories. Retrieved from April 24, 2022, from https://news.un.org/en/story/2020/03/106 0602 UNHCR. (2016). Beyond Detention: A Global Strategy to Support Governments to End the Detention of Asylum-Seeker and Refugees, 2014–2019. Progress report mid-2016. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://www.ref world.org/docid/57b850dba.html ———. (2021). Figures at a Glance in Malaysia. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://www.unhcr.org/en-my/figures-at-a-glance-in-malaysia.html Venier, S. (2019). The Role of Facebook in the Persecution of the Rohingya Minority in Myanmar: Issues of Accountability Under International Law. The Italian Yearbook of International Law Online, 28(1), 231–248. https://doi. org/10.1163/22116133_02801014 Walden, M. (2020, April 27). Coronavirus Crisis Sees Rohingya Face Growing Hostility in Malaysia. ABC News. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://www.abc.net.au/news/2020-04-27/coronavirus-sees-rohingyaface-growing-hostility-in-malaysia/12185296

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Zaidatul S.A.R. (2021). Malaysia a Sanctuary for Humanity no More. The Vibes. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://www.thevibes.com/articles/news/ 14099/malaysia-a-sanctuary-for-humanity-no-more Zhang, K., & Kizilcec, R.F. (2014). Anonymity in Social Media: Effects of Content Controversiality and Social Endorsement on Sharing Behavior (Conference Presentation). Eighth International AAAI Conference on Weblogs and Social Media. Retrieved April 24, 2022, from https://rene.kizilcec.com/wpcontent/uploads/2014/03/zhang_kizilcec_anonymity_icwsm2014.pdf

Nursyazwani is a doctoral candidate in the Department of Anthropology of the University of Pennsylvania. She is interested in refugees’ everyday struggles to rethink new kinds of politics emerging from the so-called Global South. Her research interests revolve around questions of citizenship, violence, politics, refugee political subjectivity and migration. She has been working with refugees, particularly the Rohingya, in Malaysia since 2017, and more recently with resettled Rohingya refugees in Chicago. Aslam Abd Jalil is a doctoral candidate at the School of Social Science, the University of Queensland, where he is researching refugee work rights. His academic background is in anthropology, public policy and business studies. He has been advocating for refugee rights in Australia and Malaysia since 2013.

PART III

The “Othered” Minorities

CHAPTER 6

Confronting Malaysian Indian Stereotypes and State Neglect: The ‘SuguPavithra’ Episode Within Mainstream National Discourse Shanthi Thambiah and Benjamin YH Loh

Introduction This chapter focusses on the rise of the “SuguPavithra” YouTube channel—hosted by a married couple, Sugu and Pavithra, whom we will occasionally refer to collectively—and its popularity among Malaysia’s ethnic Malay majority, widely attributed to Pavithra’s humble presentation style and strong espousal of “Malaysian values”, as expressed through

S. Thambiah Gender Studies Programme, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Universiti Malaya, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia B. YH Loh (B) School of Media and Communication, Taylor’s University, Subang Jaya, Selangor, Malaysia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_6

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her fluency in the Malay language (Bahasa Malaysia). The hosts, ethnic Indians living in poverty within an oil palm plantation, are symptomatic of many fellow Malaysian Indians who have also experienced marginalisation through plantation life, but their sudden online success has allowed the family to experience upward social mobility. What is most striking about the channel is that while ethnic Malay influencers commonly dominate Malay-language social media spaces, SuguPavithra have broken both class and ethnic barriers in the social media imaginary and mainstream media spaces. While ethnic Malay fans lavish their simple cooking recipe videos with praise and support, they remain silent on the structural issues that have led the couple to seek new alternative ways to escape poverty. In all the exchanges and coverage on social media and news platforms, there was a deafening silence on such issues. Therefore, this chapter provides an in-depth examination of the interplay between the structural and contextual issues of Sugu’s and Pavithra’s lives and their appropriation of the intersectional values appealing to an otherwise unsympathetic audience. The initial embrace of SuguPavithra blurred the lines between mainstream society and the “Other”, thus overlooking racial and socioeconomic differences and conveniently concealing their marginalised status. Sadly, their fall from grace was swift after a domestic abuse charge triggered the return of Indian stereotypes, following which the channel’s popularity vanished practically overnight from the Malaysian mainstream.

Structural Limitations to Malaysian Indian Social Mobility While Malaysians have witnessed rapid development and political transformations, not all Malaysians have the same opportunities to enjoy the fruits of national development. Ethnic Indians, comprising around seven per cent of the population, trail behind other ethnic groups in terms of economic development, educational achievement and social conditions (Joseph 2008). Their collective poverty rate is higher than the national poverty level (Ponnusamy 2009, p. 27) and they comprise 60% of urban squatters (“No Breaks” 2003). Their current state of affairs has resulted from the persistence of historical and current structures, thus limiting social mobility and hindering wellbeing. During the colonial period, the divide-and-rule strategy practised by the British established the division of labour along ethnic lines, leading

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to the geographic and economic isolation of many Indians, who worked on rubber plantations for very low wages (Ramachandran 1994).1 While the colonial administration took a special interest in the education of the Malays, they expressed indifference towards vernacular education for other groups, which developed along laissez-faire lines unless they proved politically threatening, as the Chinese vernacular schools eventually did. During the 1940s, secondary education was only available in English and Chinese. Even if an ethnic Indian was able to attain an adequate primary school education, formal education had its limits and the supposed advancement that it could provide was, in practical terms, out of reach (Watson 1980). Such historical conditions have persisted and Indian plantation communities were among the most neglected groups in post-independence Malay(si)a. The government’s rural development funds and poverty-eradication programmes never reached them, since the plantations were classified as private property (Nagarajan 2008)—e.g., significant amounts of such land belonged to the companies that later merged to form the conglomerate Sime Darby, which “pivoted” from plantations to property. Thus, Malaysian progress in economic, educational and ethnic terms was distant for the Indian plantation communities, whose poor working-class Indians were set for disenfranchisement. One of the most significant post-independence economic policies was the New Economic Policy (NEP), adopted in 1971. Racial tensions, a consequence of colonial ethnic labour divisions and the race riots of 13 May 1969, led to the NEP’s implementation, followed by that of the New Development Policy (1991) and the New Vision Policy (2000). But these affirmative action policies, by being framed in terms of participation by ethnic background rather than purely along class lines, limited minority participation in national economic activities and access to state resources in order to prioritise Bumiputera economic involvement (Crouch 1996, pp. 24–26). Translated into practice, Dilip Lahiri elaborates their impact on the Indian community as follows. We note, however, that the structural limitations affect some more than others—such limitations did not

1 For a brief but comprehensive study of the Malaysian Indians under colonial rule,

Michael R. Stenson’s Class, Race and Colonialism in Peninsular Malaysia: A Political History of Malaysian Indians is a useful introduction. For postcolonial dynamics, see Dr. Athi Sivan T. Mariappan’s dissertation for the University of Amsterdam, Spatial and Occupational Mobility of Plantation Labour in Malaysia: Retrenchments, Outmigration and Closure of Plantations, 1951–2012, which includes data not available to Stenson.

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necessarily affect the broader ethnic Chinese community to the same degree, as we will see further below. They have to face racial discrimination in many fields, including: the allotment of business licenses, the awarding of government scholarships, the closure of Tamil primary schools, citizenship applications, granting of permits for taxis, allotment of land, admission to universities, appointment of lecturers or teachers, etc. (Lahiri 2008)

It was only in the Tenth Malaysia Plan (2010)—note that this came after a significant mass protest by the Hindu Rights Action Force— that state-level initiatives to address the distinct challenges faced by the Indian community emerged. However, even establishing the Special Implementation Taskforce, the Tamil School Development Unit and the Malaysian Indian Transformation Unit could not offset marginalisation due to a myriad of legislative barriers, lack of political representation and other neglected systemic hurdles. Tamil Indians (note the diversity and differences even within broader the Indian community) who live on estates are among the more disenfranchised citizens, excluded from many poverty-eradication programmes, welfare services and social mobility opportunities. Generations of many families spend their whole lives on these exploitative plantations. Thus, the Malaysian Indians comprise what has been described as a new “underclass” (Nagarajan 2008)—of their two-million-plus population, 70% are faced with some level of poverty (Ponnusamy 2010). Strenuous and hazardous working conditions threaten worker health and safety, as do substandard living and housing conditions (Ramachandran 1994). National problems such as the displacement related to plantation labour, urban poverty, statelessness and a lack of access to education disproportionately impact and contribute to their socioeconomic disadvantages. High crime rates are one consequence—they constitute 63% of Malaysians arrested for violent crimes, 95% of those shot by police and 90% of deaths in custody (Ramasamy 2004; Ponnusamy 2009, p. 32). Thus, the cycle of crime and poverty play their part in preventing access to economic opportunities, where even improving employment opportunities is stymied by the vulnerability in such employment, further sustaining crime and poverty (Baxstrom 2005; “YPS” 2015). According to Appudurai and David Dass (2008),

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there is a widely held perception that the Malaysian Indian community is beset with problems ranging from high rates of crime, gangsterism, substance (especially alcohol) abuse, and a whole host of dysfunctional behaviours. It is also reported that Indians form the largest group of suicide victims. (p. 26).

Building on the last point, studies explicitly indicate that Malaysian Indians have a higher risk of committing suicide (Khan et al. 2014; Rathakrishnan et al. 2012). Armitage et al. (2015) found that one central explanation was how the shift from a rural-agrarian to an urban-industrial economy marginalised people with low incomes and resources. Although modernisation and development follow the rhetoric of national unity and the elimination of colonial ethnicity-labour distinctions, 54% of Malaysian Indians are still employed in plantations and form a significant majority of the urban labouring class (“YPS” 2015). Historical and colonial structures continue to limit their social mobility, where socioeconomic differences persist between parts of the Indian population and the other two main ethnic groups—the Chinese and Malays (Nadarajah 2004)—placing them in a weak position to take advantage of post-plantation employment opportunities in modern sectors, and some remain within the plantations. The proportion of children who become highly skilled despite being born to low-skilled parents is larger among the Chinese and Bumiputera (Khazanah Research Institute 2016, p. 7). Meanwhile, Chinese children had the highest relative mobility, where 89% born to parents in the lowest quintile moved up, compared to the Bumiputera (73%) and Indian (62%) groups (Khalid 2018).

The SuguPavithra Channel SuguPavithra is a YouTube channel run by the husband-and-wife duo S. Pavithra and M. Sugu, who film cooking recipes exclusively, narrating them in Malay for viewers to recreate. In each video, they invite the audience to join them in recreating Indian food, but with a Malaysian twist. Every video ends with Pavithra, Sugu and their children seated at the table, enjoying the meal that they just put together. With over 800,000 subscribers, the channel gained incredible overnight success. Much like how Sugu and Pavithra invited viewers into their homes for a good meal,

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Malaysians and audiences from around the world reciprocated by recreating their recipes and expressing devotion to not just the content, but the family themselves. Thus, in a little over three months, SuguPavithra rose from obscurity to national fame, a refuge amidst the COVID-19 pandemic, political turmoil and general global chaos. Arguably, their lightning popularity was an unintended consequence of the Movement Control Order lockdown that rendered an entire country home-bound and internet-reliant. However, this explanation glosses over SuguPavithra’s attributes, which allowed the channel to stand out in an oversaturated market and maintain exponential growth. Whether intentionally or not, SuguPavithra’s approaches to creating videos espoused a distinct style that captured their audience’s attention, characterised by modesty, relatability and family values. Rise to Fame The channel began as a humble attempt by a plantation family seeking to supplement their household income. The idea of creating a simple cooking channel came from a neighbour, who was doing the same thing. Since this only needed a smartphone and internet connection, the couple decided that this channel would be an ideal way of documenting their daily cooking, with the possibility of earning some money in the future. The couple experimented with various gimmicks, including documenting the entire process of sourcing their food (i.e., harvesting vegetables from their garden), using short, quick cuts (the current trend in cooking videos) and a few delivery styles (such as the couple taking turns to narrate and cook for the camera). After a few tries, they finally settled on a simple formula—Pavithra addressed the audience on camera to introduce the dish and then narrated the recipe and cooking process in Bahasa Malaysia, before ending with the whole family sitting in front of the camera and enjoying the meal. The framing of the videos mimicked a vlog, where Pavithra (usually not Sugu) spoke to the audience like a close friend, using inclusive language accordingly (Many commenters confused her with Sugu due to their lack of familiarity with Tamil names.). The recipes presented were often simple, generally used inexpensive and widely available ingredients and simplified techniques that Pavithra learned from her mother-in-law. These were mainly Indian dishes on a budget, often substituting more expensive ingredients with cheaper alternatives. Their videos were clearly filmed

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with a cheap smartphone, using no professional equipment or complex editing. Serendipitously, their debut coincided with the COVID-19 pandemic, and SuguPavithra was perfectly primed to capture the hearts of Malaysians and dominate the Malay-language influencer space for several months. They were paid special attention by the prime minister, who gave them gifts, and were the proverbial talk of the town for at least three months, earning them far more in advertisement revenue than their plantation wages, enabling Sugu to quit his job and move the family outside the estate within six months of launching the channel. Tapping into the Malay YouTube Zeitgeist The Malaysian YouTube space is largely dominated by Malay-language content designed around Malay personalities. Examining the weekly trending lists, they are dominated by music videos featuring Malay artists, Malay television programming and Malay influencers. Many of the more popular local YouTubers in this demographic have a large number of subscribers and high viewership, elevating them to celebrity status with successful businesses in tow. This makes SuguPavithra a curiosity, considering that they entered the YouTube creator space as a disenfranchised Tamil Indian couple who prepared and catered their content towards a predominantly Malay audience. By delivering their videos in Bahasa Malaysia and highlighting their humble lifestyle (e.g., choice of ingredients, simple home furnishings), their content greatly resonated with a large segment of Malaysians. While the content creator discourse surrounding SuguPavithra was Malaydominated, the comments sections for each video were a lot more diverse, with both Malays and non-Malays offering praise and support for their humble presentations and easy-to-learn recipes. Among some Malay commenters, a common theme that emerged was their designation as “true Malaysians”, purely on the basis that they created content for a Malay-speaking audience. Praising their fluency provided a figurative embrace, and they became ideal examples—read: models for other non-Malays to become proper citizens of Malaysia. There were also comments mentioning the similarities between Indian and Malay cultures, with a subtle suggestion that Indians should adopt more Malay cultural practices. Every so often, some commenters would suggest that “unlike certain races” (strongly insinuating that they were

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referencing the ethnic Chinese), the Indians were more likely to be more Malaysian given their linguistic fluency. But in celebrating the success of this couple, many of these Malay YouTubers and commenters conveniently overlooked the underlying structural issues. Sugu and Pavithra are a clear case of leakages in modern society—Pavithra was forced to quit secondary school to find work, while Sugu’s job in the oil palm estate earned him a mere RM 1,000 a month. Sugu and Pavithra were among the lucky ones to find a novel approach at the right time to break through the trap of marginalisation, breaking the stereotype of the poor, uneducated estate Indians, who were often considered as abusive, drunkards and unclean. Regardless of their supporters talking about their humility and how modest their living conditions were, there were often no offers to assist in elevating their impoverished conditions—save for asking viewers not to skip the advertisements played before their videos. People were happy to support them passively, without incurring any personal financial costs. No one seemed to question why Malaysians still lived in such poor conditions, thus betraying a lack of critical engagement. Public and National Recognition Media coverage of SuguPavithra’s popularity began on 8 May, with an interview conducted by Bernama, the state news agency. The relatively early coverage of SuguPavithra by news outlets and popular websites such as The Star, World of Buzz and Says began with a reproduction of the Bernama interview. The first round of coverage, published from 12–15 May, formally established SuguPavithra as newfound celebrities, with a YouTube career and income. The channel’s purpose (i.e., cooking) was inseparable from its delivery (i.e., the use of the Malay language). Language was considered the real star of the show, and always mentioned in the explanations for its success. SuguPavithra’s YouTube income would also be a recurring point of interest, as seen in a Malay Mail report on 19 May and the Daily Express on 20 May—these were also the first reports on SuguPavithra by these outlets. Their socioeconomic background began to receive more mention when their YouTube earnings became a more pronounced force in the family’s lives, highlighted alongside mentions of their YouTube success— Sugu’s work on the estate served as a mark of identity or explanation,

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emerging from the couple’s own narrations in interviews. Thus, they were portrayed from the very start as a token of national unity, and by June and July, a “rags-to-riches” narrative emerged.2 By this time, media outlets had grown comfortable assigning them a celebrity status, angling their stories to follow the threats to their humble background, with reports usually moderated by quotes from the couple themselves. June saw increased coverage, with Hype and The Rakyat Post churning out stories tinged with drama as they discussed Pavithra’s and Sugu’s RM10,000 appearance fee on 20 June. Pavithra’s photoshoot with Pepatung allowed news outlets such as the New Straits Times to take part in speculation over whether or not Pavithra and Sugu could sustain their fame through other avenues. Overall, coverage occurred through developments such as their YouTube-mediated ascension and state recognition, maintaining how they were adored by audiences for their gentle natures, loving family and relatability. The prime minister’s involvement legitimised their transformation into a national symbol, and on 16 May, the New Straits Times reported that Pavithra and Sugu had received a gift from Muhyiddin Yassin. The news story and a follow-up the next day captured Pavithra’s gratitude and dismissal of praise, as well as her plans to use their earnings to help Sugu in his estate work. Pavithra’s fluency was again mentioned. Interest was reignited when the prime minister mentioned them during his national address on the COVID-19 Economic Recovery Plan, covered again by the New Straits Times as well as The Sun Daily on 5 and 6 June, respectively (the latter summarised SuguPavithra’s success with a reference to multiracial adoration). Eventually, they met the prime minister on 9 July, with The Star featuring the only article on that day itself and The Rakyat Post piping in the next day. Reportage focussed on Pavithra’s shock and feelings of being overwhelmed, in addition to mentioning how their appropriate dress for the occasion was taken as proof of respect, thus deflecting attention away from their estate background. The recitation of the Rukun Negara3 by Pavithra was highlighted, in addition to her fluency. More national recognition came ten days later when Pavithra 2 See a Free Malaysia Today article, “YouTube cooking stars adjusting to life under the limelight”, for instance. 3 The “National Principles” that serve as the national philosophy, created in the aftermath of the 13 May riots to reinforce unity, racial tolerance and harmony. It has no legal basis and is meant simply to instil those values.

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was named an “Ipoh Icon”. The Star’s two-day coverage of the event from 20–21 July featured Pavithra as the sole recipient of the award, though it elaborated more on the award itself than its significance to her. Thus, coverage concerning official and state recognition focussed on the couple’s reactions, tracking their actions, movements and facial expressions. Particularly stressed was the family’s Malaysian-ness, prodded along by commentary on fluency, dress and their recitation. Fall from Grace At the height of their fame, news of Sugu’s alleged assault of Pavithra while intoxicated was a sharp blow to the image of a loving family. On 22 July, The Star reported that police were investigating allegations of the incident, which occurred at the Raja Permaisuri Bainun Hospital the previous day. A cowering Sugu was pictured hiding his face while being walked out by police officers. The Star continued daily coverage until 25 July, repeating content but providing updated details on the case. The investigation was presented alongside a brief summary of the couple’s story, with minimal attention given to their YouTube fame or content creation, focussing mostly on their abovementioned national recognition, especially the conferring of the “Ipoh Icon” title, which was referred to as the cause of the assault. Fewer news outlets participated in the coverage of this investigation compared to earlier events such as their mention by the prime minister or their YouTube income. Days after the incident, all their videos were deleted, and the channel remained dormant for a week as Pavithra pleaded with the public to give them space and privacy. On 31 July, the channel returned with a single video from Pavithra giving her side of the story. It stemmed from a misunderstanding—her family had asked to borrow money, and Sugu lost his temper with Pavithra’s sister, a nurse at the hospital. The coverage of this video by the Malay Mail, The Rakyat Post and the New Straits Times featured Pavithra’s face, visually shifting the focus of the narrative to her, while including visual cues of vulnerability and victimhood. Pavithra’s explanation allowed her to gain more control of the media coverage. For example, although it was reported across various platforms that Sugu claimed responsibility, Pavithra explained that the deletion of the videos was a family decision, where “Pavithra apologised for deleting all the videos but said they deleted it due to the hurt caused by the money and family issues” (“Money” 2020).

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The media continued to cover Pavithra and Sugu by providing: (1) updates on the investigation itself; and (2) opinion pieces. The increase of the latter shifted the nature of SuguPavithra’s symbolism within the framework of Malaysian representation. Articles such as Malaysiakini’s “Why we have failed Pavithra” (28 July) and The Star’s “Equality is the missing ingredient” (8 August) present the family as one of many burdened with unequal gender roles and domestic violence. Their online presence made them an accessible example, at the forefront of wider conversations on domestic violence instigated by the COVID-19 lockdown. SuguPavithra’s devoted audience received negligible mention, however—it was as if national recognition and the subsequent assault investigation had rendered their fame autonomous and disengaged from public reception. This ran counter to their pre-investigation coverage. Following Sugu’s discharge and Pavithra’s official dropping of charges against him, largely covered by The Star and the Daily Express, news coverage decreased in frequency. Meanwhile, responses from their online fans were one-sided. Pavithra was the clear favourite between the two, being the main face and narrator of their videos. Once the news of the attempted assault broke out, there was an outpouring of support for Pavithra from online commenters, who lamented her situation and said that she should leave Sugu. A few others started to reintroduce Tamil stereotypes into the discourse by saying that it was not surprising that an Indian man was jealous of his wife’s popularity and that he would lash out in public while under the influence of alcohol. Many commenters said that they were disappointed how she had chosen to stay with an abusive husband, but others expected this, since it was in line with Indian stereotypes. It would be weeks before the channel uploaded a new cooking video, one with Sugu visibly absent. In the months that followed, the channel re-uploaded several older videos and released new ones, but these were much slower-paced than before, with Sugu noticeably absent in most, although he did assist with cooking and filming. The couple also released a new recipe cookbook in September, where Sugu was present on camera but only smiled the whole time. By this point, their average videos reached less than 100,000 views, a far cry from when their videos easily broke the one-million-views mark within days of release. Most fans had abandoned them, despite their stillrespectable subscriber count (over 800,000) and they were completely left out of the Malay YouTuber space and no longer featured in videos with other YouTubers from August onwards. The couple could still earn

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a decent income through residual views from their old videos, but it is difficult to tell if this is sustainable for the family in the long run. The Apathetic Malaysian Audience Despite the tragic end to an inspiring story of social mobility within a highly marginalised community and public hypocrisy, it was heartwarming to see the public rallying to support them as they broke perceptions and provided a counternarrative to that of the lazy poor. But once that image was shattered, old stereotypes returned—they were then treated like any other working-class Indians and were no longer given special attention. The digital imaginary quickly took to SuguPavithra but dismissed and ignored them even more quickly once their shared values were compromised—i.e., that they were just like other Indians, and we should forget them and move on with our lives. The lesson for non-Malays hoping to achieve similar success is that performativity matters—creating an identity that matches with the Malay imaginary, by speaking the language and producing content in concordance with Malay lifestyles and cultures. There is an underlying message that popular culture is Malay culture, which is also synonymous with “being Malaysian”, hence the lack of values prompting inclusion or integration from the original formation of Malaysia. For those from a highly disadvantaged background due to leakages resulting from the systemic issues that have resulted in Malay-centred policies and governance, success means playing to the majority audience, which is receptive as long as it can see its own cultural traits present in the content. Once that link was destroyed and racial stereotypes took its place, SuguPavithra was once again part of the unwashed Others, and thus no longer part of the zeitgeist. It serves as a cautionary tale, where marginalised groups can only ever capture mainstream attention by integrating with or pandering to this mainstream culture. If successful, their marginalised positions are quickly forgotten and totally ignored, but they will continue to enjoy success so long as they maintain a performance. When the assault happened, many were quick to reinforce old racial stereotypes. There was no greater discussion about why this happened or the relevant latent issues in Malaysian society. That is the real tragedy of this story—that an enterprising Indian couple tried so hard to make a name for themselves yet were only supported so long as they played their part.

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The False Promise of the “Ideal Malaysian” Performance Returning to the discourse within and without the videos themselves— Pavithra and Sugu appear together in every video, and for the most part with their children too. They cook with simple ingredients and eat in front of the camera, and the casualness with which the videos are filmed and edited enable verisimilitude, where viewers peer into the family’s daily life. Firstly, this aspect renders the cooking and food inseparable from the family that cooks and eats together. They are no longer just recipes, but a symbol of care and enjoyment, where viewers are witness to an experience that exists within the family’s context and framework. Their reality is perceived in detail through audience engagement, which picks up on the most minute details given the family’s context. For example, one such detail, touted as a symbol of familial relations, was the household wok, which was seen as being unusually clean and attributed to Sugu’s involvement in domestic work (i.e., cleaning the wok). Although it is a difficult task, requiring great strength to avoid unwanted build-up over years of use, it is usually done by women. This image of a husband chipping in around the house was applauded, as were scenes of Sugu serving food to his wife before serving himself, occasionally lending a hand in the kitchen during filming. No act of Sugu went unnoticed, and the praise reflected the espousal of some admirable qualities found in a family that shared household chores, such as harmony and mutual respect. However, this perception also relies on Pavithra’s, as the cook and face of the channel. Although she was sharing recipes for the benefit of others, from the viewer’s perspective, Pavithra was indistinguishable from her societal roles—as a wife, mother and woman. While Sugu’s name comes before Pavithra’s in the channel’s name, the latter dominates the content. Sugu’s inclusion and his appearing alongside his wife can be considered a symbolic expression of patriarchal approval. Despite YouTube being a non-traditional avenue, residing provocatively in the public sphere, Pavithra’s exposure is still moderated by Sugu’s approval in the context of the domestic nature of the content. Note that Pavithra also won approval from the audience through her demeanour. Described as softspoken, sweet and mild-mannered as well as complimented for appearing without makeup, viewer commendations of Pavithra’s personality were often conflated with an adherence to traditional notions of femininity

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and modesty (Sugu’s character, cast in a supporting role and solely reliant on his contributions to domestic activities, generally received no elaboration or label.). While their family dynamics appeal to egalitarian values, Pavithra is perhaps “allowed” to appear on camera and is not burdened with household matters since Sugu lends a hand. Thus, Pavithra “constitutes” the core framework, while Sugu provides affirmation in the form of complementary behaviour, translated in turn into family traits. This traditional yet not-so-traditional image strikes a comfortable balance—i.e., non-threatening while possessing elements appealing to different types of viewers—which was eventually upset by Sugu’s violent behaviour. Generally, the media coverage also formalised a representation of Pavithra’s and Sugu’s collective identity in two ways: (1) as espousing an exemplary Malaysian identity; and (2) as a family. Their channel content is defined in terms of them “cooking various dishes while speaking fluent Malay”, which is inseparable from their appeal. They are worthy of media attention because they can win the hearts of audiences from different backgrounds (although their viewership is a mostly Malay-Muslim one). The subtext is that they have adhered to a form of unity defined by Malay ideals. Yet it is interesting to note that them being Malaysian Indian is never directly stated in any of the media coverage. Rather, this fact is referenced subtly, such as Pavithra’s fluency being described as a marvel and viewers’ requests for Indian recipes. Their fame is constructed as ambiguous and thus promoted as an exemplary Malaysian form and practice. Their YouTube revenue tells the story of a Malaysian effort that reached a commendable level of success, a consequence of the opportunity to compete on a global (read: Western) playing field. Implicit in this coverage is that such success is replicable for Malaysians—i.e., “you too can escape Malaysia’s hardships with foreign money”. In this light, the SuguPavithra channel is luckier and earlier to the game, rather than being unique in execution. The disparities between a Malaysian audience and a foreign income translate into a misunderstanding of their achievements as well as what fame and success mean to the family. Ultimately, for the media, they exist in a racial and economic limbo. Before the assault, from May to July, Pavithra was “soft-spoken” and “humble”; but afterwards no more attention was given to these traits except in opinion pieces related to the investigation. Pavithra’s agency disappeared, and SuguPavithra was now part of the already active conversation of COVID-19 domestic abuse—i.e., that it could happen to anyone. While Pavithra and Sugu always insisted that they were ordinary

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people unchanged by YouTube fame, the media coverage undermined their claims with exaggerated praise of their success, where their marriage, family and newfound status were depicted in idealistic forms until the assault allegations. The family was no longer referred to as representatives of racial unity, economic winners or national hopes—rather, they were now stripped down to their reality. Sugu’s attack had to be reconciled with his own characterisation, and he was represented as falling right into the stereotype of the working-class Malaysian Indian man by the news outlets that once valourised the couple. This ordinary identity was no longer immune to racial prejudice. Pavithra was forced to answer for the Indian community and her financial struggles in her video explanation on 31 July, one that proved problematic. She defended Sugu and implicitly adhered to Indian stereotypes by reassuring viewers that her husband was not a “drunkard”. She diverted the blame for the assault to her extended family, their newfound fame and unwanted media attention, describing it as the consequence of having money. There was a repetitive assertion that they had problems just like any other family, epitomising their self-representation throughout their time in the public eye. Yet the family’s common identity was not incorporated into their media image as ideal types because it was not contextualised. That idealistic treatment could not go on for long once the investigation began, because their context could no longer be conveniently neglected. As it was, their family identity was inherently bound to come under threat because media coverage was more fascinated by their relationship with money than with each other. Unavoidably, they let slip the reality of living on an estate. The elements that attracted the audience’s devotion (e.g., authenticity, humility, modesty) were the results of hardships. Their daily struggles were inferred from their living conditions and the limitations which they had to work around. Subtle indications and the absence of complaints offered viewers the opportunity to see how “the other side” lived without politically motivated biases. Media coverage sensationalised the “rags to riches” narrative, removing their socioeconomic condition from its context of historical and ethnic discrimination. Their perseverance allowed the channel to function as a source of income, yet it also legitimised their poverty for the public—which did not need to extend efforts to be a part of the exchange with the family or to reckon with the socioeconomic implications of marginalisation. In all the exchanges and coverage on social media and news platforms, there was only a deafening silence.

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Conclusion Since October 2020, the SuguPavithra channel has not uploaded videos as consistently as before, with no new videos uploaded until February 2021, before another break occurred from April to August. The frequency had decreased from daily uploads to a weekly schedule. The average views per video dropped considerably, averaging 100,000 each, with a couple reaching more than 200,000 views. No explanations were given for these long blackout periods. The earlier videos did not feature Sugu at all, except during the cooking process—even then only his hands were seen. Scenes with the family eating together were no longer being presented and videos tended to end after the food was prepared. From the videos presented in August 2021, the couple’s home was visibly different—apparently much smaller and humbler than before, with the kitchen still in an unfinished state. Sugu finally made an appearance and even had a few lines, but not with his children, who only appeared later. These new videos would not reach 100,000 views, and the comment sections were quieter, with a stronger presence of apparently ethnic Indian rather than Malay users. They have lost the niche which stripped them of their agency, where they were compelled to make media appearances, officiate events or support others’ campaigns. Heart-warming and heart-wrenching; the channel started as a feelgood story of immense social mobility followed by an unprecedented swift fall into oblivion. Sugu and Pavithra became victims of circumstances that forced them into the estates, before being thrust into the public limelight against their will. Unprepared for the excesses of wealth and fame, one public outburst was all it took to shatter the illusion for the apathetic Malaysian public. Once again, they were like every other estate Indian. Once their value was used up or their celebrity status called into question, the Malaysian media machine discarded them and moved on. Fickleness is not uncommon, but the way SuguPavithra was forgotten is particularly capricious, considering the role of both the public and media in their downfall. There has been no self-reflection or examination of the roles played by the public and media in this equation. This is not to excuse Sugu—but we must note that external forces were complicit in forcing the family into such a position. Deeper questions should have been raised to address the many issues faced by marginalised families, to understand why putting their family life on public display was the only way out of the estates. Unless these structural issues are addressed, the next SuguPavithra will possibly endure the same meteoric rise and fall.

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Nagarajan, S. (2008). Indians in Malaysia: Towards Vision 2020. In K. Kesavapany, A. Mani & P. Ramasamy (Eds.), Rising India and Indian Communities in East Asia (pp. 375–398). ISEAS. Nadarajah, M. (2004). Another Malaysia Is Possible and Other Essays: Writings on Culture and Politics for a Sustainable World. Nohd Publication. “No Breaks.” (2003, February 20). The Economist. Retrieved June 13, 2022, from https://www.economist.com/asia/2003/02/20/no-breaks Ponnusamy, W.M. (2009, January 7–9). Malaysian Indian Minority & Human Rights Violations, Annual Report-2008 (presentation). Global Organization of People of Indian Origin (GOPIO) and Pravasi Bharathiya Divas International Conference, Chennai. ———. (2010, January 7–9). Malaysian Indian Minority & Human Rights Violations Annual Report-2009: Malaysia Truly Racist (presentation). Pravasi Bharathiya Divas International Conference, Vigyan Bhawan, New Delhi. Ramachandran, S. (1994). Indian Plantation Labour in Malaysia. S. Abdul Majeed & Co. Ramakrishnan, S., & Manogaran, M. (2011, November 28). Political Development in Malaysia (Presentation). Conference Hall, School of International Studies, Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. Ramasamy, P. (2004). Nation-Building in Malaysia: Victimization of Indians? In L. Suryadinata (Ed.) Ethnic Relations and Nation-Building in Southeast Asia: The Case of the Ethnic Chinese. ISEAS. Rathakrishnan, B., Molugulu, N., Parasuraman, B., & Narasappa, K. (2012). The Relationship of Stress, Alcoholism and Sexual Behavior with Mental Health Among Secondary School Students: A Study in Sabah, Malaysia. European Journal of Social Sciences, 31(3), 376–383. Ravallion, M. (2020). Ethnic Inequality and Poverty in Malaysia Since May 1969. Part 2: Poverty. World Development, 134, 105039. Singh, K. (2013). Challenges to the Rights of Malaysians of Indian descent. EInternational Relation. Watson, J.K.P. (1980). Cultural Pluralism, Nation-Building and Educational Policies in Peninsular Malaysia. Journal of Multilingual & Multicultural Development, 1(2), 155–174. “YPS: 40pc of Malaysian Indians still at bottom rung of the income ladder.” (2015, May 15). Malay Mail.

Online and Media Sources (in Chronological Order) “COMMENT: Why we have failed Pavithra.” (2020, July 28). Malaysiakini. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.malaysiakini.com/columns/ 536343

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“Cooking sensation Pavithra opens up on husband’s armed attack, rues ‘problems’ that come with fame (VIDEO).” (2020, July 31). Malay Mail. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.malaymail.com/news/ malaysia/2020/07/31/cooking-sensation-pavithra-opens-up-on-husbandsarmed-attack-rues-problems/1889906 “Court discharges Sugu’s assault case after wife Pavithra withdraws complaint.” (2020, September 17). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2020/09/17/court-discha rges-sugu039s-assault-case-after-wife-pavithra-withdraws-complaint “Court orders Pavithra to submit official letter to not proceed case against husband Sugu.” (2020, August 18). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2020/08/17/court-orders-pav ithra-to-submit-official-letter-to-not-proceed-case-against-husband-sugu “Deadline set for Pavithra to submit ‘stop case’ letter.” (2020, August 18). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nat ion/2020/08/18/deadline-set-for-pavithra-to-submit-stop-case-letter “Equality the missing ingredient.” (2020, August 8). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/metro/metro-news/ 2020/08/08/equality-the-missing-ingredient “Famous Youtuber officially writes to drop assault case against hubby.” (2020, September 9). Daily Express. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www. dailyexpress.com.my/news/158089/famous-youtuber-officially-writes-todrop-assault-case-against-hubby/ “Malaysian YouTube sensation ‘Sugu Pavithra’ receives first earnings from video-sharing company, warns of imposter social media accounts.” (2020, June 20). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar. com.my/tech/tech-news/2020/05/20/malaysian-youtube-sensation-sugupavithra-receive-first-salary-from-video-sharing-company-warn-of-impostersocial-media-accounts “Malaysians Fiercely Defend Sugu Pavithra After TV Producer’s Snide Remarks Over RM10K Appearance Fee.” (2020, June 20). The Rakyat Post. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.therakyatpost.com/2020/06/20/mal aysians-fiercely-defend-sugu-pavithra-after-tv-producers-snide-remarks-overrm10k-appearance-fee/ “Malaysian cooking couple become YouTube sensation with over 165k subscribers.” (2020, May 12). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/lifestyle/family/2020/05/12/malaysiancooking-couple-become-a-youtube-sensation-and-they-get-an-income-in-usd “Malaysians Under MCO Are Finding Comfort In Newcomer Sugu Pavithra’s YouTube Channel.” (2020, May 15), Says. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://says.com/my/lifestyle/malaysians-under-mco-are-finding-com fort-in-newcomer-sugu-pavithra-s-youtube-channel

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“Mutton briyani and chicken varuval for PM Muhyiddin if he visits: Sugu Pavitra.” (2020, June 6). The Sun Daily. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thesundaily.my/local/mutton-briyani-and-chickenvaruval-for-pm-muhyiddin-if-he-visits-sugu-pavitra-DA2516432 “Pavithra officially drops case against hubby.” (2020, September 9). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/ 2020/09/09/pavithra-officially-drops-case-against-hubby “Police investigating allegation that YouTube sensation Pavithra was hit by husband.” (2020, July 22). Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.the star.com.my/news/nation/2020/07/22/police-investigating-allegation-thatyoutube-sensation-pavithra-was-hit-by-husband “#Showbiz: ‘My family became a problem, borrowing from Sugu’— Pavithra.” (2020, August 3). New Straits Times. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.nst.com.my/lifestyle/groove/2020/08/613586/ showbiz-my-family-became-problem-borrowing-sugu-%E2%80%93-pavithra “Special mention of ‘Sugu Pavithra’ has YouTuber beaming with pride.” (2020, June 5). New Straits Times. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.nst. com.my/news/nation/2020/06/598293/special-mention-sugu-pavithrahas-youtuber-beaming-pride “Sugu Clarifies Story About RM10k Demand For TV Show Appearance.” (2020, June 20). Hype. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://Hype.my/2020/ 190018/sugu-rm10k-tv-show-appearance/ “Sugu not acquitted but discharged over assault on Pavithra.” (2020, September 18). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/ news/nation/2020/09/18/sugu-not-acquitted-but-discharged-over-assaulton-pavithra “Sugu Pavithra Share How They Were Speechless When Meeting TSMY for the first time.” (2020, July 10). The Rakyat Post. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.therakyatpost.com/2020/07/10/sugu-pavithrashare-how-they-were-speechless-when-meeting-tsmy-for-the-first-time/ “This M’sian Mum Only Started Doing YouTube In 2020 & Has Now Garnered Over 328,000 Subscribers!” (2020, May 12). World of Buzz. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://worldofbuzz.com/this-msian-mum-started-doingyoutube-during-mco-and-has-now-garnered-over-119000-subscribers/ “Watch: Sugu Pavithra & Family Move Into Their New Home After YouTube Success!” (2020, June 17). World of Buzz. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://worldofbuzz.com/watch-sugu-pavithra-family-move-into-theirnew-home-after-youtube-success/ “YouTube cooking stars adjusting to life under the limelight.” (2020, July 8). Free Malaysia Today. Retrieved from https://www.freemalaysiatoday.com/cat egory/nation/2020/07/08/youtube-cooking-stars-adjusting-to-life-underthe-limelight/

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“YouTubers Sugu and Pavithra meet PM for the first time.” (2020, July 9). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nat ion/2020/07/09/youtubers-sugu-and-pavithra-meet-pm-for-the-first-time “YouTube star Pavithra awarded ‘Ipoh City Icon’ title.” (2020, July 20). The Star. Retrieved from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2020/07/ 23/youtube-stars-hubby-arrested “YouTuber named Ipoh icon.” (2020, July 21). Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2020/07/21/you tuber-named-ipoh-icon “YouTube star’s hubby arrested.” (2020, July 23). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2020/07/23/ youtube-stars-hubby-arrested “YouTube star Pavithra’s husband Sugu charged again, this time for hurting her.” (2020, July 24). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www. thestar.com.my/news/nation/2020/07/24/youtube-star-pavithra039s-hus band-sugu-charged-again-this-time-for-hurting-her “YouTube star’s hubby charged.” (2020, July 25). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com.my/news/nation/2020/07/25/ youtube-stars-hubby-charged “YouTuber told to submit letter to drop case against husband.” (2020, August 18). Daily Express. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.dailyexpr ess.com.my/news/157169/youtuber-told-to-submit-letter-to-drop-case-aga inst-husband/ “YouTuber Pavithra submits official letter to drop case against husband.” (2020, September 8). The Star. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.the star.com.my/news/nation/2020/09/08/youtuber-pavithra-submits-officialletter-to-drop-case-against-husband “Youtuber Sugu Pavithra receive gifts from the Prime Minister.” (2020, May 16). New Straits Times. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.nst. com.my/news/nation/2020/05/592996/youtuber-sugu-pavithra-receivegifts-prime-minister “Youtuber Pavithra’s post-CMCO wishlist: To invite PM to her house.” (2020, May 17). New Straits Times. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.nst.com.my/news/nation/2020/05/593219/youtuberpavithras-post-cmco-wishlist-invite-pm-her-house “YouTube sensation Sugu Pavithra receive first salary as partner on videosharing company.” (2020, May 19). Malay Mail. Retrieved April 21, 2022, from https://www.malaymail.com/news/eat-drink/2020/05/19/youtubesensation-sugu-pavithra-receive-first-salary-as-partner-on-video-sh/1867691

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Shanthi Thambiah is professor in the Gender Studies Programme at the Universiti Malaya. Her research interests are in Social Anthropology and Gender Studies, with a particular interest in the following fields: gender, migration and identity; gender and work; families in flux and violence; gender and public policies; as well as changes in culture and gender relations among indigenous communities in Sarawak and the Orang Asli in Peninsular Malaysia. Benjamin YH Loh is a senior lecturer at the School of Media and Communication, Taylor’s University. He is a media scholar who employs digital ethnography in studying emergent cultures and the digital public sphere. Having received his doctorate in communications and new media from the National University of Singapore, he focusses on the confluence between technology and society, with a particular focus on minority and marginalised communities. He co-edited a book on the 2020 Sabah state elections, Sabah from the Ground: The 2020 Elections and the Politics of Survival.

CHAPTER 7

‘Our Online-Ness Matters’: The Construction of Social Media Presences by Malaysian LGBTQ Communities Collin anak Jerome

Introduction Our online-ness matters, and that is the fact of the matter. So long as there is Internet, so long as there is social media, we will stick around for a long time. (Respondent 55, Chinese lesbian, early 30s)

“Online-ness”, in its most basic sense, refers to the following similarly associated actions of being online, being on the internet or being in the internet-enabled world. Such actions can be achieved by creating a sense of self and self-presence within online platforms through internet-enabled communication technologies. But being online, however, is not as easy as

C. a. Jerome (B) Faculty of Language and Communication, Universiti Malaysia Sarawak, Kota Samarahan, Malaysia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_7

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we might assume. It involves far more than creating an online presence if one considers the evolving issues and challenges—in addition to the opportunities—presented by internet usage. Such challenges are even more daunting for marginalised users who create their sense of online-ness by identifying, or beginning to identify, as lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or queer/questioning (LGBTQ) in terms of sexual orientation. Online platforms and the sense of onlineness that they help create play important roles in the lives of LGBTQ communities. The extant literature shows that online platforms, or more specifically for our discussion, social media platforms, are mostly used by members of these communities for the development of their wellbeing, given the unique challenges that they face in their everyday lives for living outside of society’s gender and sexual norms (Hatchel et al. 2017). It also shows that social media enhances their healthy development and wellbeing (for the youth in particular) by providing the support needed to accomplish developmental tasks of constructing identity, coming to terms with sexuality and pursuing intimate relationships. But such tasks are not necessarily risk-free, since LGBTQ communities continue to experience issues related to social support, stigmatisation, victimisation, uncertainties regarding their identities and so on and so forth (ibid.). Hence, this chapter corroborates the central argument of this book, i.e., interrogating the myth that access to new media can miraculously elevate or emancipate marginalised groups. One explanation is that new media can potentially shore up and bolster existing structures within the dominant society, often leading to the further subjugation of marginalised communities. Hence, our broader need for a deeper discussion about how new media affects real-life, day-to-day issues faced by marginalised groups—a discussion that remains under-researched because the focus of the extant literature has primarily been on new media’s transformative and emancipatory impacts instead. In this vein, the chapter examines the nuances and complexities of online-ness and discusses ways of encouraging and facilitating open, supportive discussions between members of LGBTQ communities and the mainstream Malaysian public, not just regarding online-ness but also related issues affecting people with nonnormative sexual and gender identities. It is guided by the broader theoretical framework that supports and informs this book, which draws on more recent digital divide studies, and ultimately provides a more comprehensive approach to examining the

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interactions between new media and various marginalised and/or disenfranchised peoples. This includes micro-level examinations of the role of media technologies on certain segments of society because their unique circumstances and contexts have a profound impact on their usage of media technologies. The first section provides some background and contextual information about LGBTQ communities in Malaysia, which will guide our discussion of their online-ness and social media experiences. The second examines individual views, particularly regarding their sense of onlineness and drawing from a range of real-life examples to illustrate their situations. Three points merit particular attention: (1) what online-ness means to them; (2) its key purpose(s) or function(s); and (3) the ways in which members of these marginalised communities manage their onlineness on social media platforms. The third section discusses the benefits and drawbacks of online-ness, with implications for their future use of social media. The chapter concludes with a summary of the ways in which open, supportive discussions of online-ness and related issues concerning LGBTQ communities can be raised with the mainstream Malaysian public.

LGBTQ Communities in Malaysia Malaysia is one of the most rapidly developing countries in Southeast Asia. Widely known for its diverse society, it is currently home to an estimated 32.7 million people, the breakdown of which is as follows: 69.6% Bumiputera (i.e., predominantly ethnic Malays, who are constitutionally Muslim, and smaller indigenous groups), 22.6% Chinese, 6.8% Indian and one per cent “Other” (Department of Statistics Malaysia 2020). While Islam is the official and majority religion, other religions (e.g., Buddhism, Hinduism, Christianity) are constitutionally permitted, as are other languages besides the national language, Malay (e.g., Mandarin, Tamil, Iban, Kadazandusun). Regardless, Islam and the Malay language, both of which are official and important markers of Malay identity, remain constitutionally paramount. Unfortunately, there are no actual data on the LGBTQ population in the national and administrative data records. This is explained by the Department of Statistics’ population estimates by normative sexual categories (i.e., 16.8 million males; 15.9 million females) and other demographic characteristics—Malaysian society at large continues to uphold

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normative ideas concerning sex and gender (Joseph 2014). Regardless, LGBTQ communities have long been part of the demographic landscape as well as Malaysia’s history and culture. Evidence of their existence takes the form of “transgendered courtiers” and “village performers who were transpersons” in the old royal courts (Goh 2014), cross-dressing, samesex attraction and sexual ambiguity in classical Malay texts (Noor 2009), male homosexual relations during colonial rule in Malaya (Aldrich 2008), the role of pondan (effeminate men) as mak andam (bridal beauticians) in Malay villages (Peletz 1996, 2009), gay and lesbian couples (Baba 2001) and mak nyah (male transsexuals) (Slamah 2005; Teh 2008). While the “LGBTQ” abbreviation is the most commonly used one today, it remains an imported Western terminology (with that being said, this does not mean that LGBTQ realities are also imported) with no exact equivalent in the local vernaculars. Some local terms for nonnormative gender and sexual identities do exist, such as lelaki lembut (soft men), songsang (inverted), bapuk, ah kua, mak nyah, pak nyah (specific forms of transgenderism) and wanita keras (lit. “hard women”) (Pang 2015). There are also individuals (e.g., heterosexual men in particular) who do not use any specific terms to describe their sexual attraction towards transsexuals and/or feminised gay men (Lim 2015), thus revealing “the vague, fluid and unbounded ways many Malaysians view the myriad manifestations of nonnormative gender and sexual expression” (Pang 2015, p. 362). Despite such a broad variety of local terms, the abbreviation continues to be used for numerous purposes (e.g., self-identification, selfrepresentation, self-liberation) in various contexts and settings. However, in doing so, communities often face difficulties and obstacles resulting from religious, sociocultural and legal sanctions. On another a related note, if a “classical Islamic law” interpretation is followed, the existence of four human genders is acknowledged—i.e., heterosexual male, heterosexual female, khunsa (intersex) and mukhannath (effeminate men)—but the fourth is forbidden locally because of the tendency or disposition towards homosexuality (Zainuddin and Mahdy 2017; Hashim and Mat Nor 2018; Abdul Rahman 2018). As Hashim and Mat Nor (2018) argue, mukhannath are normally sexually attracted to men, but because they are physically and naturally male, such attractions are forbidden in Islam, regardless of their gender self-identification (i.e., as female). Islam forbids homosexuality on the grounds that it is an abominable crime and the most heinous of human sins (Shamsudin and Ghazali

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2011). The divine punishment of the Prophet Lut’s (peace be upon him) people because of their homosexual conduct has sunk deep into Malaysia’s Muslim psyche, to the extent that homosexuality in particular and nonnormative sexuality and gender in general are already equated with punishment and condemnation. This has real-world repercussions, as seen in many reports and research of nonnormative individuals being subject to criminalisation, police harassment and public prosecution under both religious and civil laws (see, e.g., ARROW 2020; Luhur et al. 2020; SUHAKAM 2019), revealing that members of LGBTQ communities often face abuse, stigma and discrimination for supposedly contravening religious beliefs, moral codes and the norms regulating masculinity and femininity. Thus, laws and norms have a profound impact on their existence and daily lives, as evidenced by, among others, the tensions and conflicts between: (1) religion and sexuality (Shamsudin and Ghazali 2011); (2) individual and collective needs (e.g., ethnic, religious groups) (Jerome 2013); (3) individuals and institutions (e.g., the authorities and other governmental bodies) (Pang 2015); as well as (4) within, among and between LGBTQ individuals (Felix 2016). However, the abovementioned laws and norms are constantly challenged by many members of the LGBTQ communities, who are attempting to continue living life on their own terms through the adoption of various methods and strategies, including: (1) reconciling the tensions between religion and sexuality (Bong 2020); (2) implementing diverse self-adaptations/adjustments in navigating everyday lives (Mohd Sidik 2015); (3) employing various communicative strategies for selfexpression (Cheah and Singaravelu 2017); and (4) speaking out against abuses of LGBTQ rights and advocating for sexuality-related rights (Lee 2013). They have been further facilitated by the proliferation of social media, to which many LGBTQ individuals turn for various reasons, including but not limited to: (1) self-disclosure (Mohammad Tuah and Mazlan 2020); overcoming (mostly offline) stigma and discrimination (Jerome 2019); (3) building resilience (Muhammad Ali and Mothar 2020); and (4) spreading LGBTQ movements (Mokhtar et al. 2019). The recent resurgence of LGBTQ public figures (e.g., entrepreneurs, social media influencers, rights activists) reveals an increasingly receptive trend among some segments of the Malaysian public, including supporters, followers and/or fans who support their causes and, most importantly, acknowledge their nonnormative gender and sexual identities. Such a

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resurgence, however, has not been well-received by the authorities and mainstream heteronormative society. A well-known incident involves Nur Sajat, a famous Malay-Muslim transgender cosmetics entrepreneur, who caused a huge commotion among local Muslims by posting social media images of her wearing a telekung (female prayer garment) in Mecca and Medina, Islam’s two holiest cities (Rodzi 2020). Then Islamic Affairs Minister Mujawid Yusof Rawa requested that the Malaysian Communications and Multimedia Commission ban Nur Sajat’s social media accounts due to public uproar. A grassroots campaign, Justice for Sisters,1 was quick to argue that the real concern was Nur Sajat’s personal safety and security due to the breach of her privacy, as well the lack of a rights- and evidence-based response by the authorities. Nur Sajat was later detained by the Thai authorities for illegal entry, having left Malaysia after being charged for insulting Islam by cross-dressing at a religious function. The Royal Malaysian Police applied for an extradition order, which the Thai authorities mulled over (Bernama 2021), but Nur Sajat has since been granted asylum in Australia at the time of writing. This is just one of several cases, and more are probably unreported for many reasons (e.g., victims being afraid of the repercussions or just not wanting to report such cases to the authorities). Thus, it is more urgent than ever to examine the centrality of online-ness in the lives of many LGBTQ individuals in Malaysia, given their unique challenges living outside societal norms—a point to which we shall now turn.

Meanings, Functions and Management Strategies Members of LGBTQ communities, particularly those who participated in this study (n = 15), generally held the same views on online-ness but had slightly different perspectives.2 For the ease of discussion, the findings

1 Organised by members of the public, Justice raises public awareness about issues surrounding violence against and persecution of the Mak Nyah community. Notable figures in this initiative are renowned transgender activists Nisha Ayub, Thilaga Sulathireh and Sulastri Ariffin. See https://justiceforsisters.wordpress.com/about/. 2 The survey was conducted online for 12 weeks from May to July 2019. A total of 132 LGTBQ individuals took the survey, primarily recruited through snowballing referrals, with the survey link sent directly to their distribution lists. The majority were Malay (43.1%, n = 57), followed by Chinese (31%, n = 41), Sabahan and Sarawakian Bumiputera (19.6%, n = 26), Indian (4.5%, n = 6) and Others (1.5%, n = 2). Informal talks and open interviews with 15 informants (six Chinese, five Malays, three Sabah and Sarawak Bumiputera, one Indian) were also conducted to further validate the survey findings. Most

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can be classified into three types of online “personas” presented by the participants. The ‘Being Out Online’ Persona All participants indicated that their sense of online-ness involved more than being merely online. For a first group, it was about “being out online” and “creating a sense of self and presence based on LGBTQ identities”, particularly on social media platforms. This was further reinforced by the fact that many had already self-identified as LGBTQ and bolstered their identities by being out on mainstream platforms such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Meanwhile, the second group, who were only beginning to self-identify, viewed their sense of online-ness as “a trial step” or “an initial step” prior to full self-disclosure. Such views echo those reported by LGBTQ individuals in Dzurick’s (2018) study, who claimed that coming out online was a first, low-risk step towards being fully out, and therefore functioned as a sort of replacement for the stressful, nerve-wrecking in-person equivalent. See for instance the following excerpt from our study. I describe my online presence as a trial attempt to come out on social media. It is a better, safer option for me rather than getting bashed for coming out in person. (Respondent 79, Chinese gay man, late 20s)

The various meanings of online-ness expressed by the participants were intricately linked to their beliefs about the function(s) or purpose(s) of online-ness, and the ways in which they managed this online presence on social media platforms. The participants who fell into the first group described the main functions of their online presence variously—some of which are: (1) “to come to terms with sexuality” and “gender identity”; (2) “to explore their identity”, especially “the various aspects of their identities”; and (3) “to develop sexual and non-sexual intimate relationships”—in addition to carrying out the tasks ensuing from these functions such as accessing and exchanging sexual-, gender-, health- and

of the findings and quotes presented in this chapter come from these informants and are lightly copyedited if needed.

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relationship-related information, utilising these to enhance their knowledge, skills and experiences in dealing with themselves and other LGBTQ individuals, both online and offline. For participants in the second group, they generally described the main functions of their online presence as follows: “to get support for coming and being out online in the form of acceptance, empathy and understanding from both outside and within the LGBTQ communities”. For their online presence to work or serve its function, these groups employed some methods to manage their online-ness on social media platforms. These included but were not limited to “practising openness” (i.e., disclosing oneself openly by posting actual photos of oneself and/or partner), “practising anonymity or pseudonymity” (e.g., disclosing oneself discreetly by using avatars and/or other people’s photos), “providing selective details of themselves online”, “befriending and following those who accepted and acknowledged their identities or self-disclosure online” and “unfriending and unfollowing those who did otherwise”. I use my real photos on IG (Instagram) and FB (Facebook). There’s nothing to be ashamed of because you must be true to yourself and let people know who you really are. (Respondent 9, transgender Malay woman, late 20s) I’m not fully out yet so I still use avatars, sometimes headless or faceless photos in my profiles. Same goes for my personal details. I only share these with those who I really trust. (Respondent 67, Bumiputera bisexual woman, late 20s)

Such strategies resound with those employed by many LGBTQ users in other studies, who have turned to various social media platforms to create their online presence—or more specifically, their sense of onlineness. Such platforms include but are not limited to mainstream social media sites such as Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube (Johnson 2020), as well as niche, LGBTQ-specific social media sites such as Grindr, Scruff, Jack’D and Her, to name a few (Hatfield et al. 2020). There are various reasons why and ways in which these social media sites are used, both at the individual and community levels. A recent Australian study revealed that Facebook and other mainstream social media sites were used by LGBTQ youths to explore their identities, find support and manage boundaries—i.e., what is “for them”, such as family

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and friends, and “not for them” such as trans/bi/homophobic content in their social media feeds (Hanckel et al. 2019).This was achieved through a range of strategies such as pseudonymity, providing only selective details of themselves online, unfriending, unfollowing and curating friend lists to determine who could actually see the content that they posted (ibid.). The ‘Profiting from Being Out Online’ Persona Four participants indicated that online-ness was more of “an online strategy”—it was not only about participating in online social networks, but also profiting from them by engaging in income-generating activities. Being out online is more of a strategy for generating income. Of course, we can do networking at the same time. There are so many social media for gay men out there where you can make money off them. Dah lah free, so pandei-pandei la guna kalau nak idup (It’s free, so use it wisely if you want to survive). (Respondent 58, Bumiputera gay man, early 20s)

Such strategies resonate with those employed by LGBTQ individuals elsewhere. Gay men in the United States, particularly performers on social media platforms such as JustForFans and OnlyFans (which allow content creators to post content and receive payment directly from their followers through subscriptions or one-off tips), may earn up to USD100,000 monthly by simply sharing their private clips and photos with fans and supporters who subscribe to these platforms (Street 2019). Moreover, our participants indicated that their online presence primarily served such a function, either as a sole source of or “a little side income”—therefore, money might not necessarily be the main reason. In practice, they posted “Not Safe for Work (NSFW) and adult content” disclaimers on social media platforms such as OnlyFans or livestreamed videos to followers on LGBTQ-specific social networking applications such as Blued—if they received gifts from those who liked their videos, these could be converted into cash. I’m on OnlyFans where I earn regular income by posting my pics and vids. I work hard for this goddamned gym body! Why not share some of it with my devoted fans? Best thing is I get paid for it and I can hook up with other guys too. (Respondent 58, Bumiputera gay man, early 20s)

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I mainly use Blued to meet other gay men. But lately, I’ve been using it for livestreaming where I interact and have fun with other guys. Some send me gifts if they like what they see, and these gifts can be converted into cash which is kinda cool as a side income. (Respondent 103, Chinese gay man, early 20s)

Such strategies resemble those employed by many online gay performers and livestreamers, especially those on China’s gay dating platform, Blued. Wang (2020) observes how livestreamers transform their activities into tradeable, sexually affective data flows, as evidenced by: (1) their sexual performances; and (2) virtual gifting, liking, commenting or sharing by viewers. Such performances enable Blued to function as a site for both social networking and monetary value creation. The ‘Promoting Activism by Being Out Online’ Persona Three participants viewed their online-ness from a community perspective—it was a particular “online strategy” not only for organising community members, but also mobilising support for and spreading awareness and acceptance, both outside and within the LGBTQ communities. These participants revealed themselves as members of local LGBTQ support groups. Online-ness is an important strategy for any LGBTQ support group or organisation. We need to put ourselves out there not just online but also offline, to carry out our goal and mission, to organise our members and non-members who are interested in our cause. Only by doing this the public can take people like us more seriously! (Respondent 88, Indian bisexual man, late 30s)

As seen elsewhere, gay support groups or organisations in Europe employ mainstream social media platforms to mobilise their members and non-LGBTQ supporters to participate in campaigns and projects. Thus, these platforms are not only used to organise events, protests and online petitions, but also to provide a quick tool for the quick and broad dissemination of information and maintain contact with members and interested 2016). Similarly, our participants non-members (Ayoub and Brzezinska ´ explained that online-ness was a community-building strategy to create a solid network providing LGBTQ-related information and support, while spreading awareness among members and the general public. Hence, they

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employed slightly different management strategies compared to the rest of our participants, including providing easy and free access to organisational information, their missions, programmes and campaigns, as well as posting and interacting with followers and non-followers through Twitter accounts and/or Instagram hashtags. Such strategies mimic those employed by LGBTQ organisations elsewhere, where mainstream social media sites were used in addition to official websites to share knowledge, make claims and encourage participation by members and interested non-members (ibid.). This was done through several strategies including providing easy and free access to information about the organisation, articles explaining their mission and basic knowledge about these communities and their problems (ibid.).

Benefits, Drawbacks and the Future While differing views were expressed by participants regarding the meaning of online-ness, its functions and management strategies, many converged towards a mutual understanding of and agreement on benefits and drawbacks, and how these may shape their future use of social media. Their sense of online-ness, as afforded by social media platforms, brought many advantages that could not be easily sought out in the real, offline world, including but not limited to connecting and communicating with other LGBTQ individuals (or “People Like Us”) and receiving non-judgmental, accepting, positive and motivating support from both LBGTQ and non-LGBTQ friends and followers. Most importantly, it afforded seemingly endless possibilities for expressing various aspects of their identities (e.g., social class, ethnicity, gender, sexuality, political affiliation, sexual positioning, behaviour, fantasies) and (re)claiming their freedom (i.e., power and rights) to act, speak and think as LGBTQ individuals—something quite impossible offline. The main drawback of their online presence was cyberbullying and harassment, as many participants indicated, which brought about many negative impacts—not only for their sense of online-ness but also wellbeing. Cyberbullies, presumably non-LGBTQ site visitors, expressed disgust towards the participants for openly and unashamedly expressing their identities in their tweets, hashtags and/or posts, and resorted to insults, denigrating comments, derogatory words and even threats of violence and/or death. Respondents 48 (Chinese lesbian, early 20s) and 9 reported the following comments addressed to them, respectively:

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Hoi, u r but wan become boi. BáiCh¯ı! (Hey, you are a girl, but want to be a boy.) No penis but pretend have penis. How you main ah, use dildo is it? (You don’t have a penis, but you pretend to have one. How do you make love, do you use a dildo?) Cilake punya pondan! Baik ku bakar idup-idup, cicang lumat-lumat! (Damned pondan! I’d better burn you alive, cut you up into pieces!) Species Lut niii … Allah laknat! Baik ko baca balik Surah al-A’raf, kasi insaf skit! (You belong the Lut species, damned by Allah. You’d better reread Surah al-A’raf and repent!)

Not all such comments were exclusively from non-LGBTQ individuals, of course. Some participants indicated that they were often derided or mocked by other LGBTQ individuals who visited their social media sites because of the prevalent stigmatisation and discrimination within LGBTQ communities. Respondent 108, a Chinese gay man in his early 50s, lamented that he was often ridiculed by younger gay men who visited his gay social media site because of his age and physical appearance, as shown on his online profile. Some of these men, young ones like to call me “old ah kua” (gay), “ED” (erectile dysfunction), “taxi driver” and “pedo(phile)”. They don’t like old gay men like me. Some are racist, they don’t like Chinese men because of our filthy kulup (foreskin).

Respondent 108s experiences resonate with those of older, aging gay men who experience stigmatisation and discrimination by younger gay men, due to the valourisation of youth by the gay community (Kimmel and Messner 2013). Many young men find older gay men repulsive as potential sexual partners (Van Wormer et al. 2000), with some using slang to show their repulsion—e.g., “aunties”, “dogs”, “toads” and “trolls”, who congregate in “wrinkle rooms” (Dynes 2016, p. 25). In general, many respondents were deeply affected, expressing hurt because of the offensive comments from bullies as well as feelings of sadness and demotivation. Others reported lower self-esteem and confidence, higher levels of stress and even an inability to find sexual partners due to intra-communal stigmatisation and discrimination. Some even went through periods of self-questioning or “why/why me?” moments, while others indicated the need to withdraw completely from social

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media. According to Respondent 27, a transgender Malay woman in her late 20s, [t]he bullying affected me. Emotionally mostly. I never felt so down, so low in my life. Sometimes, I question why I should be the way I am, why am I born this way, why should I be born at all …

However, some participants did take such matters “positively”, explaining that they did not care or feel anything about such comments. Others asserted that they would not change despite the negative comments on their sexuality or gender identities. Interestingly, the experiences of being bullied or harassed online on the basis of “abnormal sex/gender” made these LGBTQ individuals much wiser and stronger. The experience of being mocked at because of who I am makes me even stronger, wiser and prouder. I don’t have to stoop that low to retaliate, just like I used to do back then. The experience made me reflect on my own words and actions. I am not always right you know, so I try my best to be the best version of myself. (Respondent 30, Chinese gay man, late 40s)

Such differing views echo those discussed elsewhere—in a review of studies from 2003 until 2017 examining social media usage among LGBTQ individuals in the United States, Escobar-Viera et al. (2018) found that it provided a “safe space” to disclose LGBTQ experiences and share ways of coping and getting support. However, cyberbullying was the most studied social media experience and was associated with depression and suicidality. McConnell et al. (2017) found that social media sites (Facebook in particular) not only provided LGBTQ youths with important social support for managing their social identities and relationships, but could also be a source of further victimisation and discrimination, as evidenced through experiences of being bullied online as a result of their Facebook “outness” and negative perceptions of posted content by their social network groups. However, much has changed in the past 18 years—that is to say, since the publication of the first of the abovementioned studies surveyed. The Social Media Safety Index by the Gay and Lesbian Alliance against Defamation (GLAAD 2021), the first baseline evaluation of the LGBTQ safety experience across the social media landscape, reveals that the leading

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social media platforms (e.g., Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, YouTube, TikTok) are “effectively unsafe for LGBTQ users”. Of particular concern is “the prevalence and intensity of hate speech and harassment, which stands out as the most significant problem in urgent need of improvement”. This brings up the question of whether or not new media can “truly” have metamorphic and liberatory powers, as this book questions. Although the GLAAD study focusses on LGBTQ people in the West, a similar conundrum exists elsewhere, as the participants in this study can attest to. Despite the barriers to their sense of online-ness on social media, all participants indicated that they would continue to curate their online presence well into the future. Social media and the internet have afforded them the ease and freedom to create such a presence, one that could not have been so easily achieved in the real, offline world. Furthermore, the participants remained positive because in today’s digital world, social media and the internet are the way to go despite laws governing minority groups’ engagement with communication technologies. The management strategies afforded by social media platforms (e.g., unfriending, unfollowing, deleting negative contents) and having basic digital literacy or knowledge (e.g., ensuring online privacy and security) were all they needed to let their online-ness flourish. More importantly, participants contended that tactfulness during online-ness could be used as a strategy to spread awareness and handle issues brought about by cyberbullies and vigilantes with care and maturity, an important skill considering how they represented the voices of LGBTQ individuals nationwide. As a member of a local LGBTQ group, I can safely say that the group or any other LGTBQ groups has a duty to represent people like us in Malaysia. That is why it is important to utilise our online presence wisely and strategically, whether to send our message across or to address hate comments. Our online-ness matters, and that is the fact of the matter. As long as there is internet, as long as there is social media, we will stick around for a long time. (Respondent 55, Chinese lesbian, early 30s, emphasis mine)

This powerful statement not only inspired the title of this chapter, but also encapsulates the sentiments expressed by the participants—that their online-ness matters, and that is the truth of the matter.

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Towards Open and Supportive Dialogue The fact that many participants were bullish about the future of social media is a strong indicator that their sense of online-ness is significant and that there would be no stopping them from actively (re)claiming their voices and agency online. However, such determination and the way forward are not risk-free, if we consider the Malaysian laws governing online (and offline) communication as well as the legal and sociocultural sanctions against LGBTQ individuals. Therefore, there is no better time than now to have open, supportive dialogue with both the LGBTQ communities and the general Malaysian public, to discuss and deal with the issue at hand. Such dialogue is essential since members of the public need to understand why their support is required for the development and wellbeing of their LGBTQ compatriots, both online and offline. For these communities, supportive dialogue not only encourages them to better understand the concerns, biases and prejudices in the prejudgments of nonnormative sexualities and genders, but also allow them to be open and unafraid of voicing their own concerns, hopes and fears. Listed below are three ways of creating open, supportive dialogue regarding LGBTQ online-ness and related issues, as recommended by the participants. Create a safe and judgement-free space for dialogue. This includes holding a dialogue session that may take various forms such as consultations, meetings, workshops and exchange-of-experience sessions, which are either awareness-, problem solving-, policy- or advocacy-oriented, supported by LGBTQ peers, parents, families and/or communities. Attendees must not be coerced into taking part to allow for opportunities to discuss a variety of sensitive and controversial topics openly and respectfully. One such topic is the role of an online presence among many LGBTQ individuals in Malaysia, and the ways in which such a presence can be sustained in light of the legal and social sanctions against them. Foster the ability and willingness to engage in dialogue. There are several ways of encouraging or affording such an ability and willingness among both LGBTQ communities and members of the public to engage in such dialogue. For instance, choosing neutral, skilled and nonjudgmental group facilitators or mediators as well as setting ground rules and procedures that must be agreed upon by all parties involved can allow for opportunities to express opinions and engage with one another in an honest and respectful manner. Appointing resourceful intermediaries

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between the LBGTQ communities and the state governments may also help in this matter. Consider the role and impact of dialogue. This must be established at the outset, whether to raise awareness, exchange experiences or solve issues and problems. Again, dialogue must ensure or allow emphatic and non-judgmental discussions and exchanges of ideas. Group facilitators or mediators must ensure that everyone benefits from such sessions, with follow-ups (rather than conducting one-off events) to ensure fruitful outcomes and implementations. This is true when it comes to drawing up policies that can help LGBTQ individuals sustain an online presence for their development and wellbeing, without necessarily infringing on other peoples’ rights to develop their respective presence online. These may or may not be similar to ways recommended and implemented by other LGBTQ individuals and/or communities elsewhere, given that there have been numerous programmes held to serve such purposes. Moreover, the views expressed were confined to our participants and thus, they are not representative of the broader queer population in Malaysia. Future research may include a larger number of participants from across wider geographic areas to determine the full scope and nature of social media usage, as well as to examine the “true” extent of such usage, its varied reasons and consequences (e.g., physical, psychological, financial) and what the future of social media holds for them as marginalised Malaysians.

Conclusion This study has examined LGBTQ individuals’ sense of online-ness, in relation to what such online-ness means to them—i.e., its main purposes or functions, the strategies employed in managing online-ness, its drawbacks and benefits as well as the future use of social media. It concluded with recommendations by members of the LGBTQ communities themselves to create open, supportive discussions with the Malaysian public on their online-ness and other issues that matter. A key novelty is the uncovering of valuable insights into lived social media realities and experiences of/from the metaphorical periphery and how these insights help address this book’s central argument—i.e., how new media can both facilitate and complicate the lives of marginalised groups, given their lived circumstances and contexts.

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Such online-ness is important and deserves further study due to the current situation affecting LGBTQ communities locally. Thilaga Sulathireh, co-founder of Justice for Sisters, argues that the situation is worsening and will most likely keep worsening because of “the rapidly shrinking spaces for LGBTQ people—offline, online, everywhere”, exacerbated by “state-sponsored homophobia and transphobia” and “increased discrimination, harassment and violent hate crime against the LGBT community” (Ellis-Petersen 2018). Even more worrying is the fact that they remain potentially at risk of being prosecuted under the Communications and Multimedia Act 1998 (Act 588) if they are found guilty of circulating “indecent” or “obscene” content on social media. Regardless, many of our participants were optimistic about their future use of social media and reiterated that there would be no stopping them from actively (re)claiming their voices and agency in this manner. Such optimism may inspire other marginalised communities to do likewise, by taking advantage of the unique affordances of new media and by working closely with digital communities despite their inability to subvert existing structures of inequalities and subordination within the dominant structures of society. Disclosure and Acknowledgement This research was fully supported by the SHAPE-SEA Commissioned Research Programme 2019 (“Exploring the Nexus between Technologies and Human Rights: Opportunities and Challenges in Southeast Asia”). No potential conflict of interest was reported.

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Goh, J.N. (2014). Transgressive Empowerment: Queering the Spiritualities of the Mak Nyahs of PT Foundation. In H.C. Quero, J.N. Goh, & S. Campos (Eds.), Queering Migrations Towards, from, and Beyond Asia (pp. 123–140). Palgrave Macmillan. Hanckel, B., Vivienne, S., Byron, P., Robards, B., Churchill B. (2019). “That’s Not Necessarily for Them”: LGBTIQ+ Young People, Social Media Platform Affordances and Identity Curation. Media, Culture & Society, 41(8), 1261– 1278. https://doi.org/10.1177/0163443719846612 Hatchel, T.J., Subrahmanyam, K., & Birkett, M. (2017). The Digital Development of LGBTQ Youth: Identity, Sexuality, and Intimacy. In M.F. Wright (Ed.), Identity, Sexuality, and Relationships Among Emerging Adults in the Digital Age (pp. 61–74). IGI Global. Hatfield, E., Rapson, R.L., & Purvis, J. (2020). What’s Next in Love and Sex: Psychological and Cultural Perspectives. Oxford University Press. Hashim, M.H., & Mat Nor, M.F. (2018, October 16–17). Mukhannath dan khunsa: Kedudukan mereka dalam ruang lingkup undang-undang di Malaysia [Conference]. 4th Muzakarah Fiqh & International Fiqh Conference (MFIFC 2018), Institut Sosial Malaysia, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. Retrieved September 12, 2020, from http://conference.kuis.edu.my/mfifc/images/e-proceeding/ 2018/24-36.pdf Jerome, C. (2013). Queer Identity Formation. Indonesia and the Malay World, 41(110), 97–115. https://doi.org/10.1080/13639811.2012.757875 ———. (2019). The Right to Be Me, Queerly Cyberly: Cybercrime and Queer Individuals in Malaysia. In Y.H. Khoo & D. Simandjuntak (Eds.), Exploring the Nexus Between Technologies and Human Rights: Opportunities and Challenges in Southeast Asia (pp. 150–184). SHAPE-SEA. Johnson, P.M. (2020). Coming Out Queer Online: Identity, Affect, and the Digital Closet. Lexington Books. Joseph, C. (2014). Growing Up Female in Multi-Ethnic Malaysia. Routledge. Kimmel, M.S., & Messner, M.A. (2013). Men’s Lives. Pearson. Lee, J.C.H. (2013). Sexuality Rights Activism in Malaysia: The Case of Seksualiti Merdeka. In M. Ford (Ed.), Social Activism in Southeast Asia (pp. 170–186). Routledge. Lim, D.C.L. (2015). Visualizing the Invisible: Social Constructions of Straight Identified Men Who Have Sex with Transsexuals and Feminized Gay Men on/off Malaysian Film. Studies in Gender and Sexuality, 16(3), 183–203. https://doi.org/10.1080/15240657.2015.1073047 Luhur, W., Brown, T.N.T., & Goh, J.N. (2020). Public Opinion of Transgender Rights in Malaysia. Retrieved October 12, 2021, from https://williamsinstitute.law.ucla.edu/wp-content/uploads/Public-Opi nion-Trans-Malaysia-English-Sep-2020.pdf

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McConnell, E.A., Clifford, A., Korpak, A.K., Phillips, I.I.G., & Birkett, M. (2017). Identity, Victimization, and Support: Facebook Experiences and Mental Health Among LGBTQ Youth. Computers in Human Behavior, 76, 237–244. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.chb.2017.07.026 Mohamad Tuah & Mazlan, U.M. (2020). Twitter as Safe Space for SelfDisclosure Among Malaysian LGBTQ Youths. Jurnal Komunikasi, 36(1), 436–448. https://doi.org/10.17576/JKMJC-2020-3601-25 Mohd Sidik, S.S. (2015). The Making of a Gay Muslim: Social Constructions of Religion, Sexuality and Identity in Malaysia and Britain [Thesis, King’s College London, University of London]. Retrieved August 5, 2020, from https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/files/44636292/2015_Mohd_ Sidik_Shanon_Shah_Bin_1029857_ethesis.pdf Mokhtar, M.F., Wan Sukeri, W.A.E.D., & Abd Latiff, Z. (2019). Social Media Roles in Spreading LGBT Movements in Malaysia. Asian Journal of Media and Communication, 3(2), 77–82. Retrieved August 5, 2020, from https:// journal.uii.ac.id/AJMC/article/view/14310/9807 Muhammad Ali, M.N., & Mothar, N.M. (2020). Discourses in Twitter Contribute to the Concept of Resilience in the LGBT Community in Malaysia. ESTEEM Journal of Social Sciences and Humanities, 5, 27–47. Retrieved August 5, 2020, from https://ejssh.uitm.edu.my/images/Vol5Fe b20/ICOMS3.pdf Noor, F.A. (2009). What Your Teacher Didn’t Tell You: The Annexe Lectures (Volume 1). Matahari Books. Pang, K.T. (2015). Sexual Citizenship in Conflict. In M.L. Weiss (Ed.), Routledge Handbook of Contemporary Malaysia (pp. 361–374). Routledge. Peletz, M.G. (1996). Reason and Passion: Representations of Gender in a Malay Society. University of California Press. ———. (2009). Gender Pluralism: Southeast Asia Since Early Modern Times. Routledge. Rodzi, N.H. (2020, February 4). Minister Wants to ban Malaysian from Social Media After Ruckus in Mecca over Gender Issues. The Straits Times. Retrieved September 5, 2020, from https://www.straitstimes.com/asia/ se-asia/minister-wants-to-ban-malaysian-from-social-media-after-ruckus-inmecca-over-gender Shamsudin, Z., & Ghazali, K. (2011). A Discursive Construction of Homosexual Males in a Muslim-Dominant Community. Multilingua, 30(3–4), 279–304. https://doi.org/10.1515/mult.2011.013 Slamah, K. (2005). The Struggle to Be Ourselves, Neither Men Nor Women: Maknyahs in Malaysia. In M. Geetanjali & C. Radhila (Eds.), Sexuality, Gender and Rights: Exploring Theory and Practice in South and Southeast Asia (pp. 98–112). Sage.

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Street, M. (2019, July 27). Gay Only Fans Performers Are Making $100,00 for Their Clips and Pics. Out Magazine. Retrieved September 5, 2020, from https://www.out.com/sex/2019/7/27/gay-onlyfans-perfor mers-are-making-100000-their-clips-and-pics SUHAKAM (The Human Rights Commission of Malaysia). (2019). Study on Discrimination Against Transgender Persons Based in Kuala Lumpur and Selangor (Right to Education, Employment, Healthcare, Housing and Dignity). Retrieved October 20, 2021, from https://www.ohchr.org/Documents/ Issues/SexualOrientation/SocioCultural/NHRI/Malaysia%20Human%20R ights%20Commission.pdf Teh, Y.K. (2008). Politics and Islam: Factors Determining Identity and Status of Male-to-Female Transsexuals in Malaysia. In F. Martin, P.A. Jackson, M. McLelland, & A. Yue (Eds.), AsiaPacifiQueer: Rethinking Genders and Sexualities (pp. 85–98). University of Illinois Press. Van Wormer, K.S., Well, J., & Boes, M. (2000). Social Work with Lesbians, Gays, and Bisexuals: A Strengths Perspective. Allyn & Bacon. Wang, S. (2020). Chinese Affective Platform Economies: Dating, Live Streaming, and Performative Labor on Blued Media. Culture & Society, 24(4), 502–520. https://doi.org/10.1177/0163443719867283 Zainuddin, A.A., & Abdullah Mahdy, Z. (2017). The Islamic Perspectives of Gender-Related Issues in the Management of Patients with Disorders of Sex Development. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 46(2), 353–360. https://doi.org/ 10.1007%2Fs10508-016-0754-y

Collin anak Jerome is a senior lecturer at the Faculty of Language and Communication at Universiti Malaysia Sarawak. He has published widely in the areas of the literature and applied language studies, gender and queer studies, as well as human rights and peace education. His recent publications include a chapter on queer Malaysian experiences with cybercrime in Exploring the Nexus Between Technologies and Human Rights: Opportunities and Challenges in Southeast Asia (SHAPE-SEA, 2019).

CHAPTER 8

A ‘Blue Ocean’ for Marginalised Radical Voices: Cyberspace, Social Media and Extremist Discourse in Malaysia Ahmad El-Muhammady

Introduction For a start, it is important to understand the concept of radicalisation, particularly in the general literature and Malaysian context. A study by the Institute of Youth Research Malaysia (IYRES 2017) found that 83% of militant detainees charged under anti-terrorism laws relied on social media platforms to access materials and establish virtual networking with likeminded individuals. One glaring trend is the lack of a universally acceptable definition of radicalism, so much so other terminology has emerged, e.g., terrorism, extremism. However, Gunaratna et al. (2011) suggest that the diversity of definitions serves more as “an opportunity than a challenge”, a view validated by a Malaysian counterterrorism official who argues that

A. El-Muhammady (B) International Islamic University Malaysia (IIUM), Selangor, Malaysia e-mail: [email protected]

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9_8

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each country faces different set[s] of problems that generate violent radicalisation … [which] provides the state some flexibilities to craft its own parameter, framework and definition of what constitutes radicalisation and terrorism, and by so doing, it provides more effective countermeasures against the threat of radicalisation. (Interview with a counterterrorism official, December 2021)

Another pertinent trend is the availability of various theories on the radicalisation process. Borum (2003) proposes a four-stage conceptual model for the emergence of a “terrorist mindset”, starting with a sense of grievance that escalates to perceived injustice, followed by target attribution and finally devaluing or distancing. This model is useful for understanding the attitude of a radicalised individual, but it does not capture the whole process, particularly pre- and post-radicalisation experiences. Borum’s model is also reflected in Moghaddam’s (2005) “Staircase to Terrorism” model, where individual engagement in terrorism is conceived as a metaphorical staircase. Starting from the “ground floor” and moving up to the “fifth”, individuals often desire to alleviate their problems and improve disadvantageous situations. A failure to change one’s disadvantaged situation will lead to frustration and generate feelings of aggression, especially towards perceived enemies. At this point, the individual might be drawn to extremist discourses and be inclined to commit acts of terror. Another model was developed outside academia, by practitioners such as security and intelligence agencies. The New York Police Department developed its own model based on homegrown cases, which consists of four phases: (1) pre-radicalisation; (2) self-identification; (3) indoctrination; and (4) “jihadisation” (Silber and Bhatt 2007). The preradicalisation phase focusses on the life of an individual prior to exposure to extremist discourse or salafi-jihadism (identified as the ideology most widely adopted by homegrown violent extremists). The second phase involves the process of learning salafi-jihadi ideology, followed by a process of intensification (indoctrination) until the final stage of jihadisation—i.e., committing the act of violence. While quite insightful for practitioners, it does not explain abortive radicalisation, where an individual moves away from or disapproves of extremist discourse at an early stage of exposure. This experience is the most common one, especially among youths exposed to extremist narratives on a daily basis, either on

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social media or in social life. It also does not inform us about the observable indicators of radicalisation and the exit process experienced by some individuals. A similar four-stage conceptual model developed by Tomas Precht (2007) is based on the radicalisation experience in Europe: (1) preradicalisation; (2) conversion and identification with radical Islam; (3) indoctrination and increased bonding; and (4) committing and planning actual acts of terrorism. Precht’s model mirrors the New York Police Department’s findings to some extent, although he added another three components: (1) background factors; (2) trigger factors; and (3) opportunity factors. Undeniably, this model is useful for at least explaining radicalisation in the European context, but it does not fit well with the Malaysian experience (El-Muhammady 2020). Therefore, it is better to develop our own conceptual framework, rather than the other way around, where we try to fit the context with existing theories or conceptual models—while they may be useful to a certain extent, they evidently do not provide sufficient explanatory power in the local context, principally because radicalisation is a context-specific phenomenon. The context where radicalisation occurs usually shapes how it is perceived and defined. In Malaysia, the way radicalisation is defined has been influenced by at least three imperatives: (1) legal frameworks, particularly anti-terrorism laws such as Security Offences (Special Measure) (SOSMA) 2012 or Penal Code (Terrorism) 130; (2) religious criteria, especially Sunni discourse or Ahli Sunnah Wal-Jama’ah perspectives1 ; and (3) universal values and norms such as the United Nations’ documents on human rights and resolutions. These imperatives serve as the bases for determining whether or not certain ideological strands, belief systems and behaviours constitute threats to national security. In my testimony at the Kuala Lumpur High Court, in my capacity as an expert witness, I defined radicalisation as the process of adopting of extremist ideologies or beliefs and translating them into violent actions or terrorist acts, as defined by Malaysian law. The adoption process occurs by

1 These are religious criteria, based on the Maturidi-Asha’arite theological school of

thought and the Shafi’e jurisprudence school of thought. There are two reasons why religious criteria are employed in this determination. One is the existence of religionoriented militant groups in Malaysia, which employ religious justification to legitimise violence, and the other is that Islam is recognised as the state religion, as enshrined in the constitution.

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learning, inculcating, deepening and indoctrinating an extremist ideology and translating it into the form of violent acts or terrorism. This learning process could involve rational, emotive and ideological justifications to accept violence (El-Muhammady 2020). I concur with various findings that radicalisation does not necessarily lead to terrorism, unless it is followed by the act of violence (Sageman 2017). Nevertheless, there is a need for us to differentiate between violent radicalisation—i.e., committing an ideologically based act of violence— and non-violent radicalisation—i.e., having radical thoughts but not committing violent acts. In this regard, non-violent radicalisation manifests itself in three forms: (1) cognitive-oriented; (2) emotive-oriented; and (3) faith/ideological-oriented. Meanwhile, action-oriented radicalisation is considered the most lethal type because it leads to violence (Fig. 8.1 and Table 8.1). It is clear that prior to the act of violence, an “internal process” occurs, transforming an individual from being violence-averse to violencetolerant, as a former detainee attested to. … yes, I agree, the first time I saw the act of violence, I disapproved of it. I know it is wrong. I can’t accept it. But after discussing it with my friends in Telegram group and learning the reason behind the act, and I think they have done the right thing (i.e., the beheading). (Interview with former detainee 2021).

The above statement offers an insight into the extensive interactions, learning process, understanding of and indoctrination among actors in the first three quadrants of non-violent radicalisation—i.e., cognitive-,

Cognitive-oriented radicalisation (non-violent)

Emotive-oriented radicalisation (non-violent)

Action-oriented radicalisation (violent)

Faith-oriented radicalisation (non-violent)

Fig. 8.1 Four quadrants of radicalisation (Adapted from El-Muhammady [2020])

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Table 8.1 Four quadrants of radicalisation Orientation of radicalisation

Description

Cognitive-oriented

The use of rational justifications for the Non-violent acceptance of violence. It occurs at the cognitive level and may or may not be translated into violence The use of emotive narratives to justify acceptance and tolerance of violence, encompassing anger, revenge, humiliation and a sense of “getting even”. It occurs at the emotive level and may or may not be translated into violence The use of faith or ideological narratives to legitimise the acceptance of violence. It occurs at the faith/ideological level and may or may not be translated into violence The use of action to commit violence Violent and acts of terrorism. It is a result of the cumulative effects of one of the above elements

Emotive-oriented

Faith-oriented

Action-oriented

Category

Adapted from El-Muhammady (2020)

emotive- and faith-oriented. Even without violent acts, these interactions constitute a vital process forming a unique discourse within a specific ecosystem and subculture. Undoubtedly, cyberspace and social media platforms offer a perfect “blue ocean” for such growth. Based on my analysis of local militant groups, such as Gagak Hitam (Black Crow) and Revolusi Islam/Revo, the use of cyberspace and social media platforms for recruitment has three consecutive stages. It starts with open sharing, targeting a “large catchment of audience” appearing in the form of postings regarding war, conflict and the deaths of women and children, for instance, to attract large audiences. Images, videos and audio material heighten the dramatic effect of the discourse. This information is generally shared on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, attracting viewers’ attention, where they usually use the comment sections to express their opinions—e.g., supporting, expressing sympathy and resharing postings (El-Muhammady 2020). In the second stage, the administrator would identify potential recruits and approach them personally, extending an invitation to join a more

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Stage 1: Open sharing Stage 2: Induction Stage 3: Operation

Fig. 8.2 Three stages of online recruitment employed by violent extremist groups in Malaysia

secure group on Telegram or WhatsApp. In this more secure environment, the real conversations take place, discussing in detail various stories and ideological narratives with participants. Such groups offer a safe space for indoctrination, thus creating a sense of belonging and fostering the formation of an in- and out-group mindset. The third stage entails action-oriented activities, leaving the domain of thinking to enter the domain of action, thus manifesting in violent acts, financing terrorism and making pledges of allegiance to terrorist groups. The above activities take place in a cyberspace ecosystem that is conducive enough for the formation of such mindsets (Wan Mohd Nor and El-Muhammady 2021) (Fig. 8.2). Punitive Anti-terrorism Laws In Malaysia, radicalisation is prosecutable under anti-terrorism laws (e.g., SOSMA 2012, Prevention of Terrorism Act (POTA) 2015 and Penal Code 130), even if it does not result in committing violent acts. Such laws are enforced as preventive mechanisms meant to curb extremism and radicalisation, due to their potential threats to national security (POTA 2015). Prior to 2012, the Internal Security Act (ISA) 1960 was used to deal with terrorism, including the Malaysian communist insurgency (1968–1989). It was powerful and feared because of its specific provision allowing detention without trial—at least for 60 days. In 1987, ISA 1960

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was employed in Operasi Lalang, which lead to the detention of 119 individuals, especially political opposition members (Mauzy and Milne 2002). For this reason, it was labelled a “draconian law” by critics (Dhanapal and Sabaruddin 2015). However, for law enforcement agencies, ISA 1960 was an effective tool of curbing radicalisation as well as religious and political extremism due to its ability to prevent future threats and recidivism among former detainees. Its effectiveness was largely due to its practicality and flexibility in dealing with various threats—practical in the sense that ISA 1960 cases involved only two parties; the detainee and the police (representing the Ministry of Home Affairs). Compare this with SOSMA 2012 and Penal Code 130, which involved multiple parties such as the detainee, police, prosecutors, the High Court and prison authorities. The resulting prosecution process was long and tedious. The flexibility of ISA lies in the discretionary powers vested in the police, who were the detainee’s only caretaker, who could evaluate the status of the individual, the effectiveness of the rehabilitation programme and the period of detention (Interview with counterterrorism official 2 2021). Thus, although terrorism cases are conducted in an open court with the presence of a High Court judge, prosecutors, the accused (who has the right to legal counsel and the opportunity to challenge the case by bringing witnesses forward) and the public, the trial could take years to complete. The waiting period for the trial itself already takes two to three years, in addition to the period taken for the hearing (Interview with former detainee 2021). This means that the accused has to spend time in detention throughout the trial and the appeal periods (only if they wish to challenge the verdict). This situation occurs because SOSMA detainees do not qualify for bail, and such cases are non-bailable. As a former ISA detainee recalled: “I feel I have already been punished even before the verdict is declared, because I have to spend so long in detention. This is not happening under ISA” (Interview with former ISA detainee 2021). It is important to note that domestic anti-terrorism laws, particularly Penal Code 130 and SOSMA, are essentially punitive. For instance, the possession of incriminating material is prosecutable and the accused may face imprisonment of up to seven years. Donation to terrorism causes and pledging allegiance (bai’ah) to such organisations can result in imprisonment of not less than seven years and not exceeding 30 years according to the Penal Code, specifically Sections 130N and 130E. These offences are non-bailable, which means the suspects under investigation will remain in

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police custody before and during the trial. However, if we compare the abovementioned laws with ISA 1960 in the context of counterterrorism, the latter was more flexible and emphasised a rehabilitative approach, meaning that the length of detention was based on one’s level of cooperation and readiness to abandon violence. In the case of 130N, for instance, the sentence was fixed by the court and ignored whether or not a person had already given up violent and extremist ideologies. Flexibility and discretion are not present (Table 8.2). Given the nature of legal consequences, militant groups are forced to be cautious and secretive. In many cases, militants often take deliberate measure to keep their activities hidden from law enforcement agencies. This is where the roles of cyberspace and social media platforms are important. Five major platforms are cited as being the best for recruitment—Facebook, Telegram, WhatsApp, Twitter and YouTube. As a former detainee explained, Table 8.2 Terrorism offences, applicable laws and punishments in Malaysia Terrorism offences

Applicable laws

Punishment

Possessing images, video, audio, flags Possessing books, reading materials Making donations (financing terrorism)

Penal Code 130JB(a) and (b)

Imprisonment for a term not exceeding seven years, a fine and forfeiture of property/assets 15 years’ imprisonment, a fine Imprisonment for a term of not less than seven years but not exceeding 30 years

Travelling to support terrorism Recruitment Pledging allegiance to terrorist groups Supporting and promoting terrorist ideology Committing terrorist acts

Anti-Money Laundering, Anti-Terrorism Financing and Proceeds of Unlawful Activities Act 2001 Penal Code 130N Also related to Sections 130P, 130Q, 130R Penal Code 130JA Penal Code 130E Penal Code 130J(1)(a)(b) Penal Code 130J(1)(a)(b) Penal Code 130C

Maximum imprisonment 30 years, a fine Maximum imprisonment of 30 years, a fine, forfeiture of property/assets Imprisonment for a term seven years, and not exceeding 30 years, a fine, forfeiture of property/assets

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… these platforms are secure, anonymous and has been proven as an effective instrument for dissemination of messages, recruitment and spreading propaganda. (Interview with former detainee 2021)

From Hotel Bellboy to ‘Cyber-Jihadist’ Recounting his radicalisation journey through social media, one former detainee explained that he was exposed to narratives of the Syrian conflict in early 2017 through a Facebook post. I was working as a hotel bellboy in the city. One day, after work, I took recess from my duty, while scrolling down my Facebook, I noticed this one posting about the war in Middle East. The whole building being destroyed in the bombing, and the image of small girl extracted from the rubble broke my heart. I was angry. I asked myself, why [do] they have to kill small children? You can go to war, but spare the children and the weak ones. I can’t sleep thinking about it. I wanted to seek revenge for this stupidity of war. I was thinking about it for the whole week. I can’t just sit and do nothing. (Interview with former detainee 2021)

His deep-seated anger and desire for revenge turned him into an effective cyber-recruiter. He created a Telegram group with the sole intention of gaining supporters for his new plan—to recruit and send youths to wage war against the Syrian regime in reprisal. However, his plan abruptly fell apart when his entire Telegram group was arrested by the Counter-Terrorism Division in 2017. He himself spent two years under in detention under POTA 2015. Turning to the discourse of extremism, extremists often operate within small groups, or cells, and have specific belief systems, narratives or discourses (Al-Suri 1998). This discourse is formed by a combination of elements imported from certain texts and ideologues, with extensive interactions or conversations among members. A secure environment is needed and certain social media platforms are convenient for such purposes. Based on my analysis of such groups (e.g., Jama’ah Islamiyyah and the so-called Islamic State [IS]), such discourse usually consists of four basic structures: (1) foundations; (2) implications; (3) means; and (4) ultimate objectives. The foundational idea of extremist discourse often highlights certain issues, narratives of injustice, the urgency of defending the weak and the call to change the situation. In some cases, it also includes religious

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and historical justifications to strengthen the discourse (El-Muhammady 2020). The second component, implication, is usually entailed. If historical injustice is a problem, what then is the next course of action? The discourse often provides the way forward for the group. Mere ideas are insufficient, but they also outline the means or instruments of achieving the ultimate objectives in the struggle. In the case of IS-affiliated groups, for instance, they often locate the problem in structural injustice within the international system and oppressive regimes such as Syria’s. For them, the “democratic” rulers in the Muslim world are un-Islamic and taghut (tyrannical). Democracy itself supposedly runs counter to the foundational faith of Muslims—i.e., tauhid, the unity of God as the source of laws and political systems. Rulers whose governance are not based on Sharia law need to be fought and removed from power to establish a caliphate or Islamic state (Interview with former detainee 2021). The above discourse is propagated by Jama’ah Islamiyyah and IS, thus departing from commonly held views by the Malaysian Muslim community and its religious scholars, who are generally receptive of democracy as a viable political system (Kamali 2010), particularly when combined with local wisdom and an emphasis on its “mechanism to choose the leaders”. Nonetheless, the Muslim community also acknowledges that democracy has its flaws, either in terms of its philosophy or mechanisms (Ahmad 2005). In democratic settings such as Malaysia, the diversity of ethnicity, religion and culture are cherished, regarded as a source of strength rather than conflict. The principles of coexistence, mutual respect and understanding are enshrined in the Rukun Negara (the national ideology). However, the above view is inconsistent with extremist discourse, wherein democracy is regarded as a modern deity or pharaoh. Muslims who “worship” democracy are deemed unbelievers, and rulers who practice democratic systems should be fought (Interview with former member of Jama’ah Islamiyyah 2015). This sub-discourse has not made headway into mainstream media and discourse since it has been silenced using antiterrorism laws, principally because it is considered threatening to national security and public order (National Security Council 2020). Hence, the only options available for extremists are using social media platforms.

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Democracy, Postmodernity and Cyberspace Let us turn to the question of why cyberspace and social media have become popular sites for recruitment by violent extremist groups (VEGs) (Gaudette et al. 2020), particularly in Malaysia. Most people would simply argue that cyberspace provides unlimited spaces and a free-flowing exchange of ideas. “The information is on my fingertips”, one former detainee explained. Anyone with the necessary facilities and connectivity can access information regardless of location or socioeconomic status. Additionally, social media plays a vital role in providing a cost-saving platform for the populace, being perceived to be free of charge and user-friendly (Interview with former detainee 2021). However, it is possible that there are other explanations when viewed from a macro-level perspective. This article advances three possibilities: (1) democratic settings and postmodern discourse offer conducive ecosystems and environments for the growth of extremist discourse; (2) VEGs often make use of the narratives of democratic rights to promote their discourse in cyberspace; and (3) extremist discourse serves as counterpoint to dominant mainstream discourse and culture in the media. Bailard (2014) argues that democracy can be a double-edged sword— liberating for the populace due to the accordance of civil and political rights in exchange for their loyalty and recognition of a state’s legitimacy. By doing so, each party serves as checks-and-balances to the other, thus limiting the excessive use of state power. However, this right can also be exploited, where freedom of expression and democratic rights are used to spread virulent messages directed against the state and to cause public disorder. Jama’ah Islamiyyah and IS do not recognise the legitimacy of the “un-Islamic” and “tyrannical” Malaysian government, which has failed to implement an Islamic political system (Dabiq 2016; Aman 2012), yet they conveniently exploit civil rights and freedoms accorded by state in their favour. When detained for terror-related charges, they ironically seek legal counsel, contrary to their doctrine which prohibits submission to non-Sharia legal systems (Interview with counterterrorism official 2021). Clearly, despite its promise to bring stability and order to the state, democracy can be used against itself, exploited to spread ideologies which undermine the integrity of state institutions. One can observe similarities between the United States’ “Capitol Hill siege” and right-wing extremist and salafi groups in Europe. Williams (2021) concludes that the former was an attempted coup intending to upend American democracy. In

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the case of salafism in Germany, Interior Minister Hans-Peter Friedrich claims that domestic salafi groups have ties to terrorists, and for salafism expert, Herbert Müller, they constitute a threat that “openly threatens the German state” (Deutsche Welle 2012). While democracy has already been conveniently exploited by VEGs worldwide, postmodernity has complicated the problem further. Observing this phenomenon, Ahmed (2007) comments that “postmodernism coexists and coincides with the age of the media; in many profound ways the media are the central dynamic and the defining feature of postmodernism”. Note that for our purposes, “postmodernity” is the more appropriate term to be used here; nevertheless, postmodernism (which is more aesthetically oriented) shares similar themes and is useful to keep in mind. While the “postmodern” is variously defined, it is often associated with cultural trends that emerged following the end of modernism (Potter 2008), appearing in the form of cultural expressions of the literature, art, philosophy, economics, architecture and literary criticism (Giddens 1991; Hossain and Karim 2013). For Azeez et al. (2014), postmodernism is characterised by a mixture of creative approaches to media and technological expressions that have a significant impact on mass media. In my view, postmodernity offers three opportunities to VEGs. The first is the apparent equality of discourses, in which each has an equal opportunity to be heard and present itself, including extremist discourse. This is evident from the influx of IS materials, for example, its popular magazine Dabiq (the first 15 issues were published between 2014 and 2016), Rumiyyah (the first 13 issues between 2016 and 2017) and alNaba’, in addition to high-definition videos and images shared across social media platforms. The RAND Report (2018) concludes that, ISIS’s strategic use of social media demonstrates the resourcefulness of the terrorist-cum-insurgent organisation, which mobilized an estimated 40,000 foreign nationals from 110 countries to join the group. Increasing internet access in both Africa and the Middle East means that ISIS also has a new pool of potential supporters who, through social media, could be recruited to join its effort to regain control of lost territory.

Second is the diminishing ability of central authorities to control public discourse. The state no longer monopolises the information to be disseminated to the public and indeed, everyone has the opportunity to

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create content and share it with the world conveniently through social media platforms. And third is the development of technology, particularly these social media platforms, enabling users to access information from anywhere in the world. The combination of opportunities offered by the democratisation of information and the equality of discourse, coupled with diminished central authority over public discourse and the technological gift of social media, have created a perfect ecosystem and “blue ocean” for any marginalised voices to spread their messages globally. For Basu (2020), this is a “globalisation of the local, and localisation of the global” phenomenon, where everyone can access, share and create content independently without relying on the state. Furthermore, in the name of exercising democratic rights, the public not only expresses criticism but is also able to exert pressure on governments into fulfilling their demands through collaborative efforts with civil society groups, possibly changing policies, political directions and culture. It is worth noting that the abolition of the ISA in 2012 was largely due to pressure from public and civil society organisations (Khoo 2021). In this context, I contend that VEGs also capitalise on the freedom and equality of discourse offered by democracy and postmodernity, especially when they are denied from penetrating mainstream discourse. In addition, punitive anti-terrorism laws drive them from the centre stage. Thus, cyberspace becomes a new and near-ungoverned space, a new battleground for VEGs to spread their discourse, instead of competing with the state’s dominant discourse in the existing competitive “red ocean”. The Manifestation of the Discourse of Extremism in Cyberspace Thus far, it is evident that extremist discourse has the potential to contribute significantly to radicalisation among Malaysian youth, in addition to other elements. In this section, three manifestations of radicalisation will be discussed to demonstrate how cyberspace and social media can be exploited as convenient platforms for spreading marginal messages.

Case I: Religious-Oriented Radicalisation The most common types of radicalisation, as directly implied by extremist discourse, are religious and political radicalisation. Religious-oriented

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radicalisation occurs when religious justification, among others, is prominently employed to legitimise the use of violence—it does include political elements too. Groups such as al-Qaeda and IS often employ religious justifications such as narratives of jihad against invaders to commit violence and stage attacks. In this context, IS has shown remarkable expertise in capitalising on cyberspace and social media, as seen in its various publications and high-definition videos depicting violent activities. Even when their “cybertroopers” retreated from cyberspace after being targeted by intelligence agencies, IS spokesperson al-Adnani goaded them into returning, arguing that such campaigns were as good as the real battlefield. For the IS ideologue Abu Sa’d al-‘Amili, cyberspace also constitute part of warfare—‘ilam al-jihad, or information warfare. The internet networks were invented by the enemy as a tool for sorcery … but these invisible soldiers right away seized and triggered those weapons and immediately shot right back at the necks of the enemies of God. The invisible soldiers changed the internet network to become a backfired weapon that terrifies the enemies of God, changing the activities of the war and killing off the goals proclaimed by their institutions which, despite looking strong in the eyes of the majority of mankind, but in truth are weak. (al-‘Amili 2012)

In her study of Dabiq, Mat Isa (2020) observes how IS has fully capitalised on the power of visual and verbal elements, applying manipulative strategies to appeal to its audience. The use of hashtags on its Twitter account have been an effective method of reaching the widest possible audience and gaining visibility among Twitter and Facebook users. Dodging the platforms’ rules by (re)creating new accounts using different names and aliases despite facing numerous removals by social media operators, she views IS’s fixation on social media as part of its amplification strategy to propagate messages to the widest audience possible (Interview with Mat Isa 2021). Unsurprisingly, the impact of social media on recruitment is significant. Malaysia’s Counter-Terrorism Division reports that social media has been effectively exploited by religious-oriented radical groups targeting those below 40, seen in statistics showing the arrests made by the Division (E8) from 2013 to 2021. See Fig. 8.3 for statistics. During this period, 558 individuals, mostly youths, were detained for various terrorism-related charges. Considering this emerging threat, the

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Fig. 8.3 Statistics of arrests for terrorism-related offences, 2013–2021 (Counter-Terrorism Division 2021)

Ministry of Youth and Sports commissioned its research arm, IYRES, to conduct in-depth studies of youth involvement in violent extremism, which confirmed a correlation between social media engagement and youth radicalisation (IYRES 2017, 2019). These studies also inadvertently reveal how “marginalised voices” can be extremely powerful at capturing youth audiences, particularly millennials, who constitute the main user base of social media platforms. Interviews with 35 detainees in 2017 revealed four recurrent narratives/themes on the efficacy of IS’s marginalised voices—religious, political, personal and sympathetic—which were meant to appeal to its audience. Here, religious narratives refer to constructed stories used by the detainees to justify their association with militant groups, using Qur’anic verses and religious terminology as points of reference. For instance, when asked about their participation in the war in Syria, they often argued that it was a religious obligation for Muslims to defend the oppressed, and that nobody would help them besides other Muslims. In addition, they believed that such participation was a form of jihad, and jihad undertaken to defend Islam and Muslims is commendable in the eyes of God (Interview with former detainee 2017).

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The second form has a political orientation, and in fact, political narratives become more convincing when interlaced with religious ones. The Sykes-Picot Agreement of 1916 and the disintegration of the Ottoman Caliphate are often cited as the bases for the idea of re-establishing a caliphate. They have standardised narratives, which often run as follows: Muslims were living under the caliphate system for hundreds of years before the arrival of Western colonisation, which not only plundered the wealth of the ummah but also flattened the entire caliphate, establishing nation-states from its former territory (Interview with former detainee 2017). The third is personal in nature, entailing issues such as identity crises, family problems, unemployment and the desire to quickly fix personal problems. Personal narratives are seen as being more impactful when interlaced with the religious and political narratives discussed above. Finally, almost all detainees cited sympathy as one of the main reasons for their participation. Such “sympathetic radicalisation” is generated by exposure to the images and videos portrayed online about the deaths, suffering and killing of innocent Syrians. These images generate a sense of solidarity in the name of a shared humanity and religion. When these four narratives are combined, they generate a powerful motivation for individuals to make life-changing decisions, thus joining the world of militancy.

Case II: Political-Oriented Radicalisation Political radicalisation is equally visible in Malaysian cyberspace, and basically refers to the content of political discourse based on radical narratives, often inclined towards racial, religious and royal issues, woven together with the elements of hate, ridicule and verbal threats. Although politicaloriented radicalisation is non-violent in nature—it is merely a verbal expression and expression of one’s views as part of exercising democratic rights—the impacts could turn out to be physical, particularly when the content is provocative. The exodus to cyberspace or social media platforms turns them into sites for expressing opinions, either about religion, politics or just practical matters. Social media is easily accessible by many, convenient and virtually free of charge. For some people, however, cyberspace offers a democratic space for political complaints and expressing grievances.

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In the Malaysian context, at least three major themes emerged from the political discourse in cyberspace. The first theme deals with highly combustible issues, namely the “3Rs”—race, religion and royals/rulers— which are often points of contention and debate among social media users. In 2019, 21, 296 reports involving cases related to these issues were received by the Malaysian Communication and Multimedia Commission (MCMC) (2019). Given the increasing number of such reported cases, the government is seeking to review its standard operating procedures and legislation to take swift action against individuals who insult religion, race and royal institutions (Bernama 2021). In some cases, politicians play a role in inciting religious and political hatred, either intentionally or unintentionally, thus generating social and political tension among the multi-ethnic communities of Malaysia. The second theme is related to the attempt to revive radical political ideologies incompatible with the spirit of the constitution. For instance, in December 2019, the police initiated an investigation into a claim that attempts were made to revive communist ideology in Malaysia, purportedly through a secret arrangement to bring back the ashes of Ong Boon Hua, alias Chin Peng, former leader of the Communist Party of Malaya (CPM). According to Abdul Hamid Bador, the former inspector-general of police, two individuals were identified as being responsible for this plan, and the case was to be referred to the Attorney-General’s Chambers for further action (Berita Harian 2019). This development raised some concerns among the public due to the CPM’s atrocities during the Malayan and Malaysian insurgencies.2 The third theme is related to the call for secession of Sabah and Sarawak from the federation, a discourse which has been a lingering issue since the formation of Malaysia in 1963. In August 2014, Sabah State Assembly speaker, Datuk Seri Salleh Tun Said, called on the police

2 Not necessarily related, but useful to note is the interest in the CPM or communism in general, even if only for aesthetic purposes. In January 2021, the police confirmed that it raided a restaurant in Pulau Tikus, Penang, for displaying a picture of Mao Zedong of the Chinese Communist Party, among others. These pictures were widely shared on Facebook and WhatsApp, thus raising serious concerns among the public. According to Senior Assistant Commissioner Rahimi Ra’ais, Penang’s criminal investigation division chief, the police has launched an investigation under Section 47 of the Societies Act 1966 and Section 505 (b) Penal Code (Sinar Harian 2021a).

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… to monitor the activity of certain individuals and groups who are using social media platforms to incite people to separate Sabah from Malaysia. Such an extreme ideology spread by those quarters via Facebook and Twitter should be monitored and controlled as it was dangerous and could shake the country’s stability and safety. (Borneo Post Online 2014)

This narrative has been employed regularly in both East Malaysian states to stir up public support during elections. Even though this may not amount to violent extremism or radicalisation, it does cause political instability, racial tensions and possible potential exploitation by foreign agents. In general, the promotion of the use of violence can be observed on social media, especially in the comment sections. Some may argue that this is normal behaviour, since it is common for netizens to express their grievances in order to vent anger and frustration—hence, it would remain at the discourse level and not escalate to a physical level (Interview with an academic 2021). However, in my estimation, such micro-expressions should be considered potential threats, which may materialise if preventive measures are not instituted. The 2019–2020 Hong Kong protests are a case in point regarding how micro-expressions turned physical, where the state was not responsive towards public grievances and frustrations.

Case III: Health-Oriented Radicalisation During the COVID-19 pandemic, a new form of radicalisation gradually emerged, centring on health-related issues and vaccination. Their proponents also incorporated religious narratives to legitimise the integrity of their claims, in addition to spreading conspiracy theories and “End of Times” narratives, emerging in the form of anti-vaccination movements targeting government policies of enforcing vaccination. Interestingly, despite its radical stance, this movement received support from some professionals, including from the legal fraternity, who challenged the legality of such vaccination policies. Looking to the United States, for example, Thomas Renz was among the sceptics leading federal lawsuits in six states (Washington Post 2021), as with New Zealand’s Sue Grey, now under investigation by New Zealand Law Society (Satherly 2021). In Malaysia, in August 2021, the Malaysian Muslim Consumers’ Association chief activist, Datuk Nadzim Johan, stated that the association was contemplating suing the government over different restrictions

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for the vaccinated and the unvaccinated, and would also take the government to court if vaccinations were made mandatory, extended to children below the age of 12 and made a requirement for attending school (New Straits Times 2021). Some proponents infused their narratives with the coming of the Mahdi and prepared for the supposed end of the world, storing food and necessities to prepare for the coming of Dajjal and the subsequent battle (Interview with counterterrorism official 2021). Clearly, this form of radicalism has departed from the mainstream and is non-violent in nature—at least for now. However, it can still challenge state institutions, which may derail efforts to control not just COVID19 but also infectious diseases in general. In this regard, proponents of such movements are considered “radical groups” for advocating “radical ideology” because they refuse to follow the mainstream consensus, although it is possible that such radicalism may become “mainstream trends” in the future given their popularity, or if purportedly scientific discoveries supposedly validate their claims—e.g., the infamous Lancet article on vaccines that was since retracted. See also Michael Yeadon, a former Pfizer scientist who served as its vice-president, who joined the call to “halt COVID-19 clinical trials” (Reuters 2021a). Despite many findings disputing Yeadon’s claims (Reuters 2021b), he was regarded as a “hero” by the anti-vaccination movement (Reuters 2021a). Regardless, accusing such movements of being threats to national security without considering their concerns can be equally excessive (The Star 2021), particularly if some refused to be vaccinated due to health issues, age factors, freedom of choice and religious reasons. In some cases, they may have legitimate medical concerns without having any intentions of disobeying state injunctions, thus suggesting case-by-case considerations. A delicate balance is required, since a high-handed approach to “making the life of anti-vax[xers] difficult”, as the health minister put it, may cause resentment among the public and generate more problems than solutions. Hence, in my view, it is imperative that the Ministry of Health leverages health literacy or education to tackle vaccine hesitancy. However, health-oriented radicalisation, which infuses conspiracy theory narratives with calls for the preparation for war, may demand new considerations because these have the potential to threaten national security and public order. The recent exposé by the police of a Telegram group, Perjalanan Mimpi Yang Terakhir (The Last Dream Journey), is a case in point. Led by a woman known as “Sittah Annur”, who called upon her followers to prepare for the Third World War and the coming

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of the Mahdi (Sinar Harian 2021b), her arrest put an end to this group. Such a move was not far-fetched, considering how on 15 December 2021, German authorities arrested several members of a Telegram group known as Drenden Offlinevernetzung, known for its anti-vaccination stance, after the police found it discussing an attempt to assassinate the state’s prime minister (The Guardian 2021). These incidents suggest that although health issues are usually not considered security matters or treated in the same manner as terrorism, they are capable of generating similar effects, thus undermining state initiatives to tackle the pandemic. It also proves that cyberspace can be exploited to propagate radical messages to unsuspecting victims either online or offline, even if they do not initially appear to be that disruptive, at least from a superficial point of view. Thus, we can say that the online migratory pattern demonstrated by some radical groups or “marginalised voices” are a cumulative effect of push-and-pull factors at the domestic and systemic levels. The nearungoverned territories of cyberspace have offered strong pull factors attracting radical voices to the periphery in the face of dominant discourses in mainstream media, while the urgency of attracting prospective clients pushes radical groups further into dangerous territory, despite facing possible sanctions by the state’s legal arms. Managing Radicalisation and Extremist Discourse For at least 20 years, Malaysia has maintained its multipronged approach to tackling the threat of radicalisation and violent extremism. At least five approaches have been adopted: (1) a legal approach; (2) rehabilitation; (3) public awareness campaigns; (4) improved security measures; as well as (5) regional and international cooperation (El-Muhammady 2016). The legal approach is considered the mainstay of counter-radicalisation and counterterrorism strategies. Prior to 2012, Act 82 of ISA 1960 was extensively deployed to tackle various national security threats (Hamidi 2016). To its critics, as mentioned above, it was labelled as draconian due to colonial-era provisions for detention, misused against the opposition and to silence criticism. In the face of mounting pressure by the political opposition and civil society, this law was replaced by SOSMA 2012, which also had broad detention powers to ensure national security. In addition to terrorism-related laws, there are various others being enacted and enforced to manage online activities, as seen Table 8.3.

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Table 8.3 Offences, laws and jurisdictions Type of offence

Applicable laws

Agencies/jurisdiction

Sedition Threats to national security Defamation

Sedition Act 1948 Penal Code (Terrorism) 130 Penal Code Defamation Act 1957 Syariah Criminal Offences Enactment Communication and Multimedia Act 1998 Communication and Multimedia Act 1998

Royal Malaysian Police Royal Malaysian Police Royal Malaysian Police (civil) State Department of Religious Affairs MCMC

Penal Code 130 Strategic Trade Act 2010

Royal Malaysian Police Ministry of International Trade and Industry Royal Malaysian Police Ministry of Communication and Multimedia Royal Malaysian Police MCMC Central Bank

Insults to religion

Possession of material related to pornography, incest and prostitution Identity theft Distribution of weapons and explosives Hacking Abuse of personal data

Terrorism

Financing terrorism

Computer Crime Act 1997 Personal Data Protection Act 2010 Penal Code 130 (Offences relating to terrorism: 130B–130T) SOSMA 2012 POTA 2015 Prevention of Criminal Act 1959 Anti-Money Laundering, Anti-Terrorism Financing and Proceeds of Unlawful Activities Act 2001 Anti-Money Laundering Act

MCMC

Royal Malaysian Police Central Bank

Adapted from El-Muhammady (2021)

The second approach involves rehabilitation programmes, built upon the premise that individuals can be deradicalised through dialogue, reeducation, inculcation of mainstream values and continuous monitoring during their post-release period. The main purpose is changing mindsets, particularly correcting misinterpretations of religious doctrines, ideological formulations and inclinations towards violence. Psychological assessments are also conducted to assess detainees’ states of mind, especially before release. The ultimate purpose is to prevent future radicalisation,

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attacks and recidivism, but some researchers have expressed doubt about their effectiveness because several alumni were re-arrested or re-engaged in militancy (see, e.g., Abuza 2008)—Yazid Sufaat, Lotfi Ariffin, Samad Shukri, Zid Shaharani Mat Esa, Zainan Harith, Zainuri Kamaruddin and Rafi Udin were identified by the police as recidivists due to their reengagement in militancy (Interview with counterterrorism official 2021). Despite criticism, the rehabilitative approach has continued to be part of preventive mechanisms under POTA 2015, because in principle, the programme was successful and recidivism was relatively low. The government has also taken the initiative to raise awareness among the public on violent extremism and radicalisation, thus focussing on a secondary target (i.e., yet unaffected youths). This was carried out by various parties, particularly the Counter-Terrorism Division, educational institutions, civil society organisations and the media. The Southeast Asia Regional Centre for Counter-Terrorism, the Prison Department, the Institute of Public Security of Malaysia and the Ministry of Home Affairs also actively engage with the public by organising public talks, seminars, conferences, training and workshops with the general theme of preventing and countering violent extremism. In January 2021, the Institute of Public Security, in collaboration with the Accounting Research Institute, Universiti Teknologi MARA and other public universities—namely Universiti Kebangsaan Malaysia, Universiti Malaya, Universiti Sultan Zainal Abidin, Universiti Utara Malaysia, Universiti Sains Islam Malaysia and the International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation—initiated a one-year study and the development of a national action plan to prevent and counter violent extremism, which was initially expected to be completed by March 2022. This resulted in the National Action Plan on Preventing and Countering Violent Extremism (also known as MyPCVE), meant to prevent and counter violent extremism, and will be made public towards the end of this year. Besides, there are initiatives to improve security measures at entry and exit points nationwide to prevent penetration by possible returning fighters from the Middle East, strengthened further through regional and international intelligence-sharing with friendly services under the Trilateral Cooperation Arrangement, joint maritime and air patrols as well as the Maritime Command Centre (operating in Malaysia, Indonesia and the Philippines (Amalina and Dass 2020). Despite the implementation of various strategies, to what extent are they effective? Is the enforcement approach effective at managing the

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exploitation of cyberspace and social media? In my view, the legal approach remains absolutely vital. However, a novel approach is also needed to complement the existing methodology. The manifold forms of civil discourse, for instance, can be employed to educate social media users, having had a long and well-established history of maintaining a healthy and productive society. Most importantly, it emphasises the efficacy of language, characterised by a respect for others, productivity and truthfulness, involving listening, avoiding hostility and direct antagonism while maintaining the impersonality of reportage. Conversely, uncivil discourse is language characterised by direct insults, the willful misattribution of motives without due reason and open contempt (Beets et al. 2020). In our context, it seems that there are two ways forward. The first is to automatically marginalise extremist discourse, and the second—paradoxically—is to maintain them on cyberspace, engaging them in civil discourse. However, challenging extremist discourse requires a certain level of knowledge and skill because the ultimate purpose of this exercise is to expose and debunk the ideology, logic and (mis)interpretation of ingrained ideological constructs. Hence, … the purpose of engaging in civil discourse is to find mutual benefit and opportunities for synergy amongst alternative perspectives for advancing a given field of study. It is not about entrenchment within scientific dogma or belittling one’s opponent simply because of disagreements. Being civil does not demand nor require a disconnect from passion. In fact, the majority of scientific scholars are intensely passionate about the topics they pursue. Passion fuels excitement, creativity, and strong feelings. Yet these should not serve to silence opposing viewpoints. (Beets et al. 2020)

In addition, undertaking civil discourse requires the readiness and agreement of both sides. One has to embrace empathy and a willingness to shift points of view, display openness and ultimately seek the truth. Indeed, intentional engagement in civil discourse does not mean that we must agree. Disagreement is the cornerstone of scientific advancement and helps challenge the way we think of and view the world. But we do need to be mindful about how we express disagreement, and whether we interject with language that serves to belittle rather than constructively further conversation (Beets et al. 2020).

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Thus, in the Malaysian context, the application of civil discourse can be implemented in at least three situations. First, during rehabilitation programmes, in which former detainees are given the “right to be heard”, opportunities to present their case and justify the logic of their participation. After these presentations, other parties are given the opportunity to examine the bases of arguments, cross-examine presenters and provide counter-responses. The main objective is to allow each participant the chance to evaluate their thinking and actions, trying to find common ground in the spirit of peaceful coexistence. Second, it can be integrated into the strategies for countering violent extremism by targeting social media users specifically. Based on my experience conducting such work online, engaging with individuals who are still at an early stage of radicalisation may save them from continuing with their radicalisation trajectory. As a practical step, we need to set up a monitoring team, well-trained in the art of civil discourse, to scour social media platforms and identify potential targets, especially those who are still at an early stage of radicalisation, before then engaging them in conversation. The key technique is to question the logic of their narratives and actions to trigger critical thinking, including their beliefs in the discourses or narratives of extremism. Admittedly, this approach may not completely halt online recruitment, but may at least disrupt or slow it down. Third, civil discourse can also be incorporated as a module to counter violent extremism, meaning that it can be taught to practitioners involved in preventing and countering violent extremism and those directly dealing with conflictual issues. Such skills and knowledge are useful in countering extremist messages on social media, and cyberspace in general.

Conclusion We can now draw several conclusions. First, cyberspace and social media are vital instruments for the growth and spread of extremist discourse, either in the form of religious-, political- and health-oriented radicalisation. Second, there is a need to differentiate between violent radicalisation/extremism and non-violent radicalisation (which only exists at the cognitive, emotive and ideological levels). Such differentiation is the first step towards crafting an effective strategy to prevent and counter extremist discourse. Third, radical groups exploit democratic settings and the postmodern ethos (i.e., the collapse of modernism’s generally teleological or all-encompassing meta-narratives) by maximising the use

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of social media and cyberspace in a bid to spread messages to wider audiences. Fourth, given the freedom and convenience of social media platforms, radical groups and individuals also capitalise on these opportunities to cultivate religious-, political- and health-oriented radicalisation. Finally, we must be cognisant that proponents of extremist discourse, who originally survived as “marginalised voices”, have now been able to find a “blue ocean”—i.e., the internet—to spread their messages to followers worldwide.

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2022, from https://www.rand.org/blog/2018/12/isiss-use-of-social-mediastill-poses-a-threat-to-stability.html Reuters. (2021a, March 18). The Ex-Pfizer Scientist Who Became an Anti-Vax Hero. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.reuters.com/investigates/ special-report/health-coronavirus-vaccines-skeptic/ ———. (2021b, May 21). Fact Check-Fact check: Ex-Pfizer Scientist Repeats COVID-19 Vaccine Misinformation in Recorded Speech. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.reuters.com/article/factcheck-health-coronavirusidUSL2N2N72CS Sageman, M. (2017). Turning to Political Violence: The Emergence of Terrorism. University of Pennsylvania Press. Sanger, L. (2012). Who Says We Know: On the New Politics of Knowledge. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://web.archive.org/web/201212221007 19/http://www.edge.org/3rd_culture/sanger07/sanger07_index.html Satherly, D. (2021, January 8). Sue Grey, a Lawyer Spreading COVID-19 Misinformation, Now Under Investigation by Law Society. Newshub. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.newshub.co.nz/home/lifestyle/2022/01/ urban-farming-s-popularity-rising-in-new-zealand-as-low-carbon-growing-alt ernative.html?ref=ves-nextauto Silber, M.D., & Bhatt, A. (2007). Radicalization in the West: The Homegrown Threat. Police Department Intelligence Division. Sinar Harian. (2021a, January 3). Polis buka kertas siasatan restoran pamer gambar pemimpin komunis. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.sin arharian.com.my/article/117352/BERITA/Nasional/Polis-buka-kertas-sia satan-restoran-pamer-gambar-pemimpin-komunis ———. (2021b, September 18). Ajaran PMYT bercanggah hukum syarak. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.sinarharian.com.my/article/162 154/BERITA/Nasional/Ajaran-PMYT-bercanggah-hukum-syarak The Guardian. (2021, December 15). German Police Raids Target ‘Anti-Vaxxer Murder Plot’ Against State Leader. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/dec/15/germanpolice-conduct-raids-in-saxony-over-anti-vaxxer-plot-dresden The Star. (2021, October, 19). Debunk Anti-Vaccine Myths with Scientific Facts, Says Expert. Retrieved April 4, 2022, from https://www.thestar.com. my/news/nation/2021/10/19/debunk-anti-vaccine-myths-with-scientificfacts-says-expert Wan Mohd Nor, M., & El-Muhammady, A. (2021). Radicalisation and Paramilitary Culture: The Case of Wanndy’s Telegram Groups in Malaysia. In B. West & T. Crosbie (Eds.), Militarization and the Global Rise of Paramilitary Culture. Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-16-5588-3_6

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Ahmad El-Muhammady is an assistant professor at the International Institute of Islamic Thought and Civilisation at the International Islamic University Malaysia (ISTAC-IIUM). He is also an associate fellow at the International Centre for Counter-Terrorism, The Hague and associate research fellow at the Accounting Research Institute (ARI), Universiti Teknologi MARA (UiTM),Malaysia. He was also appointed as an expert witness by the Royal Malaysia Police to provide testimony to the Malaysian High Court in terrorism related-cases. Since 2011, he has worked closely with the Special Branch’s Counter-Terrorism Division of the Royal Malaysian Police and the Prison Department to implement the rehabilitation and deradicalisation programmes for individuals detained under domestic terrorism laws.

Index

A agency, 1, 6, 8, 10, 12, 41, 44, 50, 57, 58, 69, 79, 86, 100, 101, 104, 108, 109, 126, 132, 134, 155, 157, 164, 169, 170, 176

everyday politics, 94, 99

C (counter)terrorism, 163, 164, 169, 170, 173, 181, 182, 184 cyberspace, 9, 12, 69, 77, 167, 168, 170, 173, 175, 176, 178, 179, 182, 185–187

I indigenous online communities, 4, 27, 33 indigenous people, 4, 5, 17, 19, 20, 22–30, 33, 34, 41, 44–46, 54, 58

D deforestation, 18, 25, 31–33 digital avatars, 10, 67–69, 76, 78–81, 85, 86 digital ethnography, 47, 93, 99 digital media communities, 17

L LGBTQ communities, 3–5, 11, 142–146, 150, 152, 155–157

E elections, 10, 27, 39, 40, 43, 47, 48, 52, 55–57, 180

F female migrants, 68, 72, 77

M majority-pandering, 99 Malaysia, 1, 2, 5, 6, 10–12, 18, 25, 40–42, 46, 47, 49, 50, 71, 72, 91–97, 99, 101–109, 120, 124, 125, 130, 132, 143, 145, 146,

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Singapore Pte Ltd. 2023 B. YH Loh and J. Chin (eds.), New Media in the Margins, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-981-19-7141-9

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INDEX

154–156, 165, 168, 170, 172, 173, 176, 179, 180, 182, 184 Malaysian estate Indians, 11, 134 marginalisation, 2, 45, 58, 96, 120, 122, 126, 133 minorities, 1–4, 6–8, 11, 55, 93, 102, 121, 154 N Native Customary Rights (NCR), 9, 17–20, 22–28, 30–33 native titles, 4, 9, 10, 17, 30, 33 new media, 4–12, 68, 142, 143, 154, 156, 157 O online-ness, 141–143, 146–151, 154–157 online presence, 3, 11, 129, 142, 147–149, 151, 154–156 online relationships, 81, 85 Orang Asli, 10, 40–44, 47–58 P postmodern discourse, 12, 173

R radicalisation, 12, 163–169, 171, 175, 177, 178, 180–184, 186, 187 rehabilitation, 169, 182, 183, 186 Rohingya refugees, 11, 92–96, 99, 100, 105, 107

S Sabah, 10, 53, 54, 67–72, 76, 80, 85, 95, 146, 179, 180 Sarawak, 9, 10, 17–20, 22, 23, 25–33, 54, 146, 179 social capital theory, 68, 73, 77, 82, 85 social media, 2–12, 17, 18, 27–30, 32, 33, 46, 47, 68, 69, 76, 77, 79, 81, 85, 92–94, 97–104, 106–109, 120, 133, 141–143, 145–157, 163, 165, 167, 170–180, 185–187 social media influencer, 145 subjectivity, 100