I am proud to be a Sabahan Bumiputera and Bajau. Being Bajau means growing up close to the sea, understanding its rhythm, and respecting what it gives us. Some people insult us for our darker skin or simple island life, saying we “just fish and live on boats.” But they forget—we are the origin of this place. The sun that darkens our skin is the same sun that makes Sabah glow with life. We are the children of the land and sea, and we have a responsibility to take care of it.
Because of this connection, it hurts when people insult Sabah, calling it corrupt, dirty, or poor, without understanding its history. Many blame locals for how polluted Semporna has become, but they forget what it once was. Before mass tourism and resorts arrived, the islands around Semporna were clean, calm, and beautiful. People used to love them because they were pure. Now, greed and carelessness—from both locals and outsiders—have polluted what we once protected. The same people who contributed to that damage now expect it to be clean again for their comfort. It is selfish, and it shows how people can destroy what they claim to love.
This carelessness is not limited to the sea. Not long ago, I read an article by Sheelasheena Damian about the landslides in Sabah. Homes were buried, roads were cut off, and families were forced to leave with almost nothing. These landslides did not happen suddenly or without cause. They were connected to deforestation, unstable land, and years of neglect. Yet despite the scale of the damage, the conversation faded quickly.
What stayed with me was not just the number of lives lost, but how easily the tragedy was forgotten. For the people affected, this was not a headline or a statistic. It was their home, their safety, and their future. Seeing how quickly we moved on made me question how much we truly care about the land we depend on.
That was why I wrote “How Dare We Ignore This?”. I was not writing as an expert or activist, but as a Sabahan who felt frustrated by the silence. I kept thinking about how easily we ignore problems that do not directly affect us, even when they are happening in our own state. Writing that piece was my way of asking a simple question: if we can ignore this, what else are we willing to ignore? When nature suffers, it is never separate from human lives.
As a tourism student at University College Sabah Foundation (UCSF), my understanding of responsibility has grown even deeper. I have learned that tourism is not just about promotion, but about preservation. My lecturers, especially the women, have shaped how I see this field and my role in it.
At UCSF, I have personally seen this through lecturers such as Miss Susie Labadin, Miss Jessica Justine, Miss Hazlina, and Miss Esther, among many others. Through outdoor activities, fieldwork, and practical learning, they do not simply bring students outside. They teach us to think about impact and outcome. They guide us to understand how tourism, development, and human actions affect the environment and local communities. More importantly, they encourage reflection—asking us why something matters and what responsibility comes with our choices. From them, I have learned that education is not only about experience, but about awareness and accountability.
Beyond the classroom, I see similar care reflected in everyday Sabahans. Women organising small community clean-ups, teaching children not to litter, or choosing to protect their surroundings even without recognition. These actions may not make headlines, but they matter. They show that environmental care in Sabah often begins at the community level, through habit, responsibility, and values passed down over time.
Many of my friends are Dusun and Bumiputera, and through them, I have learned how deeply culture connects to nature. Events like Unduk Ngadau may seem like beauty pageants to some, but to us, they celebrate intelligence, strength, and cultural pride. They remind us that heritage is not something to display and forget, but something to live by and protect.
Faith also shapes how I understand responsibility. Islam teaches that humans are khalifah, caretakers of the Earth, and that everything around us is an amanah, a trust from Allah. This belief reminds me that every effort—no matter how small—matters. Volunteering, raising awareness, or choosing care over convenience are all forms of responsibility.
Sabah is full of potential, but many people have become too comfortable. We enjoy the benefits of our land but forget that sustainability requires effort. I see many young people choosing to leave Sabah because of low pay, high living costs, and limited opportunities. I understand why. But if everyone leaves, who will stay to make things better? Change cannot come only from outsiders. It has to start with those who love this place.
Protecting Sabah is not just an environmental duty. It is an act of love. It means defending our home from exploitation and preserving its stories for the next generation. It means speaking up even when others stay silent.
Sabah’s women—from lecturers to mothers, students to community leaders—show us what that love looks like in action. They protect through consistency, inspire through care, and remind us that love for our homeland must be lived, not just spoken.In the end, to love Sabah is to protect it. And to protect it, we must first care enough to act.
