By Gladys Koh (26A01B), Kunchur Bharat (26A01B) and Lerraine Neo (26A01A)

All images, unless otherwise stated, were taken by the writers.

Before Lee Kuan Yew, the Crown colonies, and Raffles, there were the Orang Laut. Literally translated from Malay as ‘people of the sea’, they are a group of seafaring nomads who resided in the waters around Maritime Southeast Asia, such as the Malay Peninsula, the Riau Islands, Java, and Sumatra. And, they are Singapore’s indigenous people. 

Also known as the Orang Pulau, in Singapore’s quest for modernisation, they have faded into obscurity, confined to a few pages in a Social Studies textbook, if any. One organisation, oranglaut.sg, wishes to change that.

Firdaus Sani, the organisation’s founder, is a descendant of the Orang Semakau, a group within the Orang Laut that used to occupy Pulau Semakau—now famously a landfill after the forced relocation of the Orang Semakau to mainland Singapore some 40 years ago. This was part of a larger relocation effort that moved all members of the Orang Laut community into public housing, so that the waters could be used for military developments or land reclamation. Because of this relocation, an entire community was left rudderless. Ancient practices dating back centuries were abruptly halted, and a people that not only depended on the sea for its livelihood, but also had a spiritual connection to it, had to abandon it. 

The Government’s decision to start modern Singapore’s history from 1819 also contributed to the erasure of the Orang Laut. Singapore’s first foreign minister, S. Rajaratnam’s declarations in 1984 and 1987 that Singapore had nothing worth remembering prior to Raffles’ arrival in 1819, undermine the pre-colonial historical significance of the Orang Laut. During the 14th century, they had formed strong connections with the Malay rulers, serving as vassals to the nobility and revered for their unmatched knowledge of the sea amidst shifting geography. Now, they have become a victim of historical amnesia, drifting to the peripheries as a result of urban development and relentless modernisation. 

Today, West Coast Park is the last holdout for the Orang Laut. Here, they are able to maintain their connection to the sea and preserve some of their traditional practices for future generations, despite having relocated fully to modern housing. The Humanities Programme Batch of 2026 was invited to an exclusive walking tour of West Coast Park, where we could speak to Firdaus, as well as a member of the community who was relocated in the past, but is keeping their way of life alive at West Coast Park.

Preserving Intergenerational Belonging

We often speak of tradition as something to be kept. Held close to our hearts, lauded over and protected by our belief. It is a reminder of who we are, a shared memory that binds us to our community and those who have built it. But for the Orang Laut, tradition was something to be lived. 

Firdaus introduces us to an elderly man with wiry hands and a low, raspy voice. He speaks little to no English, so Firdaus ferries our questions and his answers, switching easily between English and Malay. 

Cik Ahm, as he introduces himself, is a trap-maker. The traps are called bubus and were traditionally made from rattan or bamboo, though chicken wire is a more common material now. The rattan traps were mainly used at mangroves to catch mud crabs, while bamboo or chicken wire cages are more often used for fishing in coral areas.

He uses his traps to fish, setting them up at low tide and waiting for the tide to herd his prey in. He sells his catch on the weekend, earning about $1000 a month, though this varies. He also used to build kelongs, recounting how he and his brother would drive tall wooden poles into the seabed. 

Now, such lifestyles are much rarer, but the elders of the community continue to go out to sea. It marks them as starkly different from the average Singaporean, removed from the sprawling buildings and solid roads. They understand that they are not as adapted to urban society, but find pride, not shame, in their otherness. Singaporeans would not survive at sea, they note, nor out in the wild as they could. They take pride in their skills, passed down to them and mastered over decades of experience.

Yet as times have changed, the community has been forced to shift their efforts from active practice to preservation and education. This, our guide tells us, comes not only because of the now-urban landscape, but also a waning interest among the younger generation. 

“They feel a sense of separation from island life,” he explains. “They may say something like: My grandmother was from [the island], but I was born [in Singapore], and I identify as Singaporean.” 

There is fragmentation of sorts that now plagues the community. Living scattered amongst HDB flats with only one small part of West Coast Park to call their own, it is difficult to capture the kinship that once vitalised the Orang Laut. The youth see their culture and tradition as an additional attachment, rather than something woven into their day-to-day life. 

“I’m worried interest will fade,” Firdaus says, despite the project’s plans to create a centre where youth can learn skills or the history of their people. “Then these spaces can only become homages.” 

But even if the youth were willing to learn, some of the elders are apprehensive about passing down certain parts of their heritage. In particular, the topic of spirituality is a sensitive one. 

Before the prevalence of modern medicine, the Orang Laut relied on traditional tonic making to cure ailments. They used local plants and other ingredients such as turmeric or chicken bones, boiling or mixing them with water depending on the illness. 

The ingredients themselves have some healing properties, but for the Orang Laut, belief in the healing system was another key component in activating the tonic’s strength. Many of their practices are similarly rooted in belief, not only in their heritage but also in spirituality. 

The shift to mainland Singapore, however, has stifled this notion. Indigenous spirituality is a sensitive topic in Singapore, where so many different religions coexist. Many of the Orang Laut now identify with Islam, and specific religious governing bodies have set out proper pathways for becoming Muslim. The elders’ spiritual beliefs do not sit nicely within these guidelines, and some refuse to pass them down to the younger generation. For them, it has become a sin.

Negotiating a Space in Singapore

“The elders believed [that] if the clouds were in the shape of fish scales, it would be a good catch.”

Firdaus, translating for Cik Ahm

In the distance, sunlight glitters on the waves. A modern workboat is docked nearby. 

Culture, in the face of modernity, is also not a new tension for the Orang Laut. When the community elders first moved to mainland Singapore, they built makeshift shacks along the coastline, their boats docked just steps away. Both the sea and the shore were understood as home, and the early kelongs embodied this belief. Today, the community elders don’t live along the coast. As urbanisation progressed, they shifted to living in nearby public housing, just like most other Singaporeans. 

Now, the same kelongs are rarely used. The traditional lifestyles are continued only by some elders in the community. 

A traditional bubu made out of rattan. Image credits: Irene Eva Thomas

In response to such modernisation, the Orang Laut culture is increasingly reframed through intentional spaces and acts of preservation. Kampong-like environments built with mangrove wood and nipah palm, though no longer lived in, are avenues for tourism. Art, such as Rumah Laut—a three-part installation—becomes a tangible way to pass down knowledge and culture that can no longer be sustained through everyday practice. This piece takes the form of a constellation light show, inviting city dwellers, as a group, to reimagine the life and loss experienced by Singapore’s earliest navigators. In doing so, it retains the essence of Orang Laut kinship, an immersive experience that gestures towards the collective spirit of their past, where life was shaped by togetherness.

Embodying this spirit, most of the Orang Laut community still reconnect during special occasions like weddings and last year’s Hari Orang Pulau. Celebrations strengthen kinship, Firdaus says.

But a clear disjunct has emerged between the mindset of the younger generation and that of the elders. Raised within mainland Singapore’s urban structures, the youths are less reliant on the sea and consequently, less connected to past ways of life. As the Orang Laut communities become more dispersed, the idea of community itself has had to adapt, shifting from an everyday reality to something more fragmented and episodic.

Beyond Singapore

As an organisation, while Orang Laut SG’s focus currently is mainly on Singapore, there is also a need to provide support to various sea-dwelling communities in the region. Firdaus spoke of their work with the Orang Suku Laut community in Bintan, where they assisted in campaigns for the preservation of burial grounds that were slated to be relocated for further land use. Additionally, while members of the Kawal community were reportedly not asked to relocate from their coastal homes, many chose to do so following impacts on their fishing livelihoods due to land reclamation, sedimentation, and restrictions on access to mangrove ecosystems. 

Yet, these are choppy waters. Firdaus is wary of toeing the line between assisting the larger regional Orang Laut community and intruding into the policies of countries that are simply not ours. Bintan and Batam are also important economic zones for Indonesia, making them sensitive and debated areas. Southeast Asia is especially fraught with conflict about maritime borders, and the possibility of military involvement and escalation in these circumstances is a real fear that limits how much they can do. 

Regardless, they do what they can. The Orang Laut community in Singapore has worked with the Orang Seletar in Malaysia, inviting them to Singapore to observe our conservation efforts and promote their books as a way to further cross-border collaboration in a shared fight for greater representation. Orang Laut SG was also able to raise almost $5000 to be donated to the Orang Suku Laut community to contribute to travel costs and administrative fees, restoration of wooden structures in burial grounds, upkeep of burial grounds, and visitations to other Orang Suku Laut community leaders who supported the Kawal community. This is on top of efforts to shed more and more light on their circumstances through their social media platforms. 

Orang Laut SG’s substack, which raises awareness on issues the community is facing

It would be easy for a community already fighting an uphill battle for representation to keep its focus within our borders, especially with the possibility of political blowback. However, it is precisely in the spirit of community that they seek to preserve, that they feel the responsibility to assist even in the wider region. The message is clear: in the fight for representation, nobody can do it alone.    

The Way Forward

This growing distance between generations has inevitably led to a shift in everyday practice and a decline in remembrance of culture. With the Orang Laut’s presence becoming increasingly invisible within Singapore’s urban heritage, spaces of preservation take on a renewed function as sites of revitalisation, where their traditions are reintroduced and made visible to the public. To some, there are worries of such efforts being reduced to tokenistic representations. But to the elders, such compromise is necessary for their survival. The path forward, they recognise, lies not in full preservation, but in adaptation—the difficult choice of knowing which elements of culture to carry forward, and which must be let go. 

Orang Laut SG are currently conducting walking tours of West Coast Park and accepting catering orders for traditional Orang Laut food. More information can be found at their website: oranglaut.sg