When we talk about indigenous communities, we’re almost always talking about land. About land that has been seized. Forests that have been turned into plantations or mines. About rights that are not recognized. About the struggle to regain recognition of indigenous territories.

And indeed, all of that is important.

Without land and territory, indigenous peoples lose the space to live their lives. Recognition of indigenous rights and territories is a vital part of the struggle of indigenous peoples.

But is the struggle of indigenous peoples only about land? Of course not.

Because on that land lies life. There is knowledge. There is language. There is food. There are forests, rivers, and wildlife. There are ways to harvest nature’s bounty. There are ways to read the seasons. There are ways to solve problems. There are stories passed down from parents to their children.

If we view indigenous communities solely as groups fighting to reclaim their land, we may be seeing only a small part of their lives.

In Sumatra, including Aceh, indigenous communities have weathered many changes over the years. Colonialism, development, changes in governance, markets, technology, and an increasingly modern way of life.

Many things have changed. Clothing has changed. Homes have changed. Jobs have changed. Young people go to the city and return with a different perspective. But do these changes automatically erase traditional customs? Let’s reflect on this.

Because tradition may not primarily reside in what a person wears. It lives in the way people understand their land. In the way the forest is treated. In the way the river is interpreted. In the way food is sought. In the way parents teach their children when to take and when to let nature regenerate.

It also lives on in memory.

Therefore, when discussing indigenous communities, we often get caught up in what’s immediately visible: traditional clothing, traditional houses, ceremonies, dances, or rituals. Yet there’s another aspect that isn’t immediately apparent. Knowledge.

In Aceh, for example, there are elders who hold knowledge about elephants. This is not knowledge they gained from school or conservation books. This knowledge comes from a long life, from the forest, from experience, from their parents’ stories, and from repeated encounters with elephants.

In Takengon, elephant handlers know that elephants are not merely animals to be chased away when they enter a garden. There are signs to be read. There are behaviors to recognize. There is a safe distance to maintain. There are ways to handle elephants so that humans remain unharmed and the elephants do not need to be injured.

How do they know all this? From experience. From their parents. From stories told over and over again. And perhaps from a collective memory that is far older than the term human-elephant conflict that we use today.

This is where I think we need to pause for a moment.

We too often assume that knowledge must come from schools, universities, research institutions, or experts. It’s as if something only becomes knowledge after it’s published in a journal, turned into a module, or granted legitimacy by an institution.

In fact, there is knowledge that has never been written down. It is stored in the minds of elders. In the hands of farmers. In the memories of women who know which plants can be used as medicine. In fishermen who read the changes in the water. In people who know when the forest is “speaking.” And in the minds of elephant handlers who know how to handle elephants.

We often refer to this kind of knowledge as local wisdom. It’s a term that sounds beautiful, but sometimes it makes it feel like something from the past. As if it were a relic that should be kept in a museum.

But that’s not the case. That wisdom is still alive. It’s just that we often aren’t patient enough to listen to it.

The problem is, the bearers of that knowledge are getting older.

And when an elder passes away, it’s not just one person who leaves. It’s possible that a part of the community’s knowledge is buried along with them.

That is why what we are trying to do through the Together for People and Planet program in Aceh is actually quite simple: listen.

Listening to the stories of the elders. Rediscovering the memories of elephant handlers. Documenting how the people of Aceh in the past understood elephants and how they dealt with their presence.

Not to take that knowledge away from the community. Nor to turn it into nothing more than a project document. But to try to preserve a memory before it is lost along with its bearer. Because the struggle of indigenous communities is not just about reclaiming what was once lost. It is also about safeguarding what they still possess. Land and territory, of course. But also knowledge, memories, values, food, culture, and ways of life.

Indigenous communities may no longer wear traditional clothing every day. They may use smartphones, work in the city, and live in a world just as modern as ours. But their traditions live on in the way they view nature.

Tradition isn’t always visible. Sometimes they exist as knowledge. As memory. As a way of approaching life.

And in the context of conservation, perhaps we also need to shift our perspective. Indigenous communities are not merely beneficiaries. Nor are they merely a group that needs to be involved when a project is about to enter their territory. They are the holders of knowledge. They are the subjects.

And in many ways, they may actually possess what we’re searching for today: a way of living in harmony with nature without always feeling the need to conquer it.

In Takengon, the memories of those elephant handlers may be nothing more than stories to some people. But for us, they represent knowledge worth heeding. Because before we devise new ways to save nature, perhaps we need to ask first: What did the people before us actually already know?

Happy International Day of the World’s Indigenous Peoples. August 9, 2026.

To those who safeguard their territories, while also preserving the knowledge, memories, and wisdom passed down from generation to generation.

Because protecting the rights of indigenous peoples is not just about restoring what was once taken. It is also about ensuring that what they still possess is not lost as well.

Ratna Dewi,

Right-Based Conservation and Social Inclusion Lead

WWF Indonesia