Tuak is a drink that is so firmly placed in my understanding of being Iban, of being Sarawakian, that I have no idea when I first tried it, or when it entered my consciousness. Tuak was there from the beginning.
Tuak is brewed from rice, and it is crucial to all celebrations for the Indigenous peoples of Sarawak, Malaysia, such as the Iban. Its flavor, strength, sweetness, and ingredients vary from family to family, making it hard to define in any concrete terms. But wherever it is made, it’s vested with ritual and memory.
For me, tuak is a party, togetherness, family, and laughter. It is the heavy heat of the tropics sitting on your skin, even as the sun sets. The smoke from the barbecue wafts across the veranda, and you can smell the fat from the wild boar melting on the flames. An aunty holds a glass of tuak up to you, laughs, and challenges you to drink “in one go!”
Today, tuak is undergoing a moment of transformation and evolution, growing from its homemade and familial origins and becoming more commercially available, and known nationally and internationally. And while it retains a traditional sensibility, tuak is also becoming an ever more varied drink in the hands of a new generation of makers.
“There is a value system based on padi culture. This value system is not kept because padi is an essential food crop. But, more often than not, it is kept based on the belief that padi has a spirit which must be pacified through cultivation.” Dr. James Jemut Masing
It is impossible to talk about tuak without talking about rice, or padi—the Malay word for “rice plant.” And it is impossible to talk about rice without understanding its fundamental place within the culture. The above passage, written by my late father, is taken from a 1988 paper produced for a seminar investigating the future development of the Iban community. These value systems he describes—the belief in the sacredness of the rice itself—are still true today.
Iban tuak is most frequently made from glutinous rice, though it can also be fermented from nyeli (a local barley), tapioca, and maize. In Michael Buma’s book, Iban Customs and Traditions (1987), he describes the brewing process at length, which is usually conducted in traditional longhouses: The rice is soaked for up to 10 hours, ideally in a running stream. It is then placed into bamboo cylinders, which are transferred to racks above a smoldering fire; the heat of the cinders, rather than the flames, is what cooks the rice.
Once cooked, the rice is spread evenly on mats, and the process of fermentation begins when yeast is mixed into the rice. It is then placed in earthenware jars, covered, and made airtight. The first brew takes two weeks, and then is ready to be bottled. To make it more potent, Ibans sometimes put these above the fireplace. Cold river or rain water can also be added after the first brew, after which it’s left for another two weeks; this makes the tuak a lot less sweet.
When discussing the making of tuak, everyone told me that it was important to be in the right mood: The tuak is believed to take on the emotions of the maker and therefore it is important to be in a positive spirit. Dreams are hugely important to the Dayak (Indigenous) communities; an impetus to start brewing might come while sleeping. You can plan to make tuak, but also plan for there to be the right time, for a “feeling” to move you to do it.
The serving of tuak is equally tradition-bound. Buma goes on to explain the importance of the drink within rituals and celebration, and writes about the host’s duty—often carried out by the younger women of the longhouse—to persuade guests to drink. When offered a glass of tuak by the host, it is rude to say no. The host aims to get the guests drunk and the guests aim to stay sober. Drinking tuak becomes a game, and festivities are joyous.
The main celebration in the Dayak calendar is Gawai, an annual harvest festival akin to New Year’s Eve in Western cultures. In Sarawak, Gawai is held on June 1-2; traditionally, families go back to their longhouses and villages to celebrate. In a 1979 expenditure list for an Iban Gawai, recorded in my father’s paper, 38% of expenses were for drinks, and of that, 34% were for ingredients to make tuak. Coffee, arak, and whiskey were also bought as part of the drinks budget. These days, a lot more beer is drunk, and a number of other soft drinks are available, but tuak is still crucial to the celebration, both as something to enjoy and as part of a shared ritual.
That ritualistic role extends to a religious context. Within Iban society, tuak is added to offerings to the gods, an act that happens often, on holidays as well as when welcoming important visitors. Included in the offering are products that are important to the Iban: small amounts of tobacco, rolled banana leaf, and rice in five different forms: grains of rice, rice cakes, glutinous rice, popped rice, and tuak (sometimes mixed with chicken’s blood), in a small cup placed on top.
Sarawak is a unique space within Malaysia. Different communities share public places like kopitiams (coffee shops) in a way that doesn’t happen as often in the rest of the country, while food and drink stall owners of varied backgrounds—Chinese, Malay, Indian, and Dayak—also share space.
That multifariousness is in part an outgrowth of the state’s history. Sarawak’s colonial past is adjacent to but separate from much of the rest of the region’s. It was one man—James Brooke—and his family who ruled over the region, rather than the East India Company or the British state itself.
After leaving the East India Company’s army, Brooke went to Singapore to try his hand at trade. While there, he made an agreement with the Sultan of Brunei to help quell local rebellion and piracy in exchange for land. His influence grew, and with it the land that he governed (from 1841 until his death in 1868), which became present-day Sarawak. He never married, and later left the state to his nephew and his offspring.
Though Brooke kept ties with Britain, and was knighted in 1846, his governance existed outside of the strict mode of the Empire. That, combined with the fact that the largest group of people in Sarawak are Dayak (the Iban being the largest within that) has led to an idiosyncratic social structure.
This background helps contextualize the current commercial space that tuak now occupies. It is a drink, and a tradition, that is deeply Dayak, but is also seen as broadly “Sarawakian”; it is a product that gets to be both an idea of the future while being firmly rooted in the past, and in the land. It holds a place within the origin stories of its people.
In recent years, tuak has begun to take on a new role within the cultural space of Sarawak, due primarily to members of younger generations who are looking to reclaim and preserve it. As they move away from villages to urban centers, the connection with family and traditional practices becomes less tangible. Within a diasporic context, food and drink offer a form of that connection that is immediate, pleasurable, and celebratory. This is particularly relevant to the second and third generations of the Dayak communities, as their longhouses and villages are often remote, and only accessible by river and multiple days of travel.
Tuak’s role in both social and ritual spaces is why it feels so important to young Sarawakians as a site of identity, and one that they want to showcase and share with others and each other. Historically, it is very much a drink brewed at home and only within the Dayak community. Recipes are handed down through families; it is made throughout the year but with special attention, or larger quantities, for celebrations such as weddings and festivals.
Why tuak hasn’t previously taken on a more commercial or formalized role in Sarawak is likely due to its relationship with colonialism. The Global South was—and still is—a space to provide the Global North with produce, and a place where capital could be gained for colonial powers. Traditionally, alcoholic drinks like tuak had no value in that structure and were left well enough alone, except when missionaries attempted to curb drinking in Indigenous communities. But now, there is an energy by Sarawakians to rethink what tuak means, and how it fits into their contemporary idea of society.
Martina Chia Yun Ying, 23, started a family tuak business in Kuching, the state’s capital, in 2021 called Tuak by the Rasa Family. “For so many years, my family members have been pushing my grandma [Margaret Dobin Anak Rasa] to sell her tuak, not just to close family and friends. But in early 2021, Grandma Rasa had a minor stroke; that’s when I knew if anything happened, it would’ve been a shame that her grandchildren wouldn’t know how to brew tuak,” Ying says. “It’s not just about brewing, it’s a part of us as Bidayuh [a Dayak community].”
For her, the idea of tradition and heritage, and the whole identity of tuak, is about more than the liquid. “It is made from harvesting our own ingredients, supporting Indigenous farms, and building community.” The Rasa family makes tuak infused with local ginger, and uses rice from various area farms. “As a Dayak, no matter how big or small our house is, we will always find a way to plant things—ginger, corn, tomatoes,” says Ying. “And so, the ingredients comes from these little farms.”
“For so many years, my family members have been pushing my grandma [Margaret Dobin Anak Rasa] to sell her tuak, not just to close family and friends. But in early 2021, Grandma Rasa had a minor stroke; that’s when I knew if anything happened, it would’ve been a shame that her grandchildren wouldn’t know how to brew tuak.”
Initially, Ying promoted the businesses in a considered way, using social media and creating a marketing plan, similar to how she approached her other business of making jewelry. “But I stopped forcing this approach; tuak is something we grew up with and we started it because it is part of our culture and I wanted to showcase that. Really this is a place for my grandmother to be creative,” she says. The whole family gets involved in the brewing, and they can trace their recipe back 150 years. They sell the tuak for RM48 ($11) for 700ml, mostly on Instagram and by word-of-mouth.
Keelan Woon, 34, is group director of Carus Group, who recently bought the Kuching-based Honlynn Distillery. He believes in supporting and building up Sarawak’s various cottage industries. Although not Dayak, Woon is Sarawakian, and so naturally this belief includes tuak and the rice-based distilled spirit langkau. Originally a 20-year-old distillery making local whiskeys, Honlynn Distillery pivoted to traditional drinks with a core commitment to investing in produce; the spirits are made entirely from local rices.
Its tuak, Kaban Tuak (kaban means fellowship or friend), was launched in May 2021 in Sarawak, and then December 2021 in Malaysia’s capital, Kuala Lumpur. The aim is to first establish the brand in Malaysia before taking it overseas. To do this, Honlynn Distillery will have to ramp up production, which is logistically complicated. Because this is traditionally a drink brewed at home, and family units are smaller without multiple generations living in the same space, the knowledge isn’t being passed down as it was previously; currently the distillery employs one brewer, and it needs more.
One key issue, Woon explains, is around what yeast to use. It is an important consideration, as it dictates the flavor and texture of the tuak—traditionally wild yeasts were used and individuals had their own sources, but as a commercial company this has to be heavily regulated. “It is an active ingredient; we have to ensure what we get is safe, we can’t afford to recall batches,” he says. He hopes that, as they build, they can use local yeasts.
Another major barrier for producers is consumer education. Outside of Sarawak, tuak is still little known or understood. “The key issue has been to move away from using the word ‘wine,’” Woon explains. “Wine comes with a specific concept and a benchmark that tuak is not going to meet. It’s an unfair comparison.” Woon says that it is sometimes compared to sake, which he finds garners a frequent response: “But sake is more refined.”
Overall, these comparisons negate the history of tuak, he says, which is one of passed-down recipes, familial consumption, and localized production. Woon hopes to see tuak being understood on its own terms, but he does see langkau as an easier win—it can be used in the same way as other clear spirits, such as vodka, and so is more easily understood.
Evelyn Teo Yee Hui, 36, runs #WAT Academy, based in Miri in the north of the state. It provides a safe space for young talent, focused particularly on those from marginalized communities as well as those who have found the traditional school system difficult. Hui, who is of Chinese heritage, works with an Iban brewer to make the academy’s Tuak Atelier, launched in 2020, which is sold primarily through social media.
In opposition to Woon, Hui cultivates an explicit connection between wine and tuak. “We appreciate it just as we appreciate wine from grapes,” she says, and all the posts on Instagram give tasting notes that feel familiar to a wine lexicon. “My ultimate dream is to see our tuak able to make its mark on the international wine market, and even win some awards!” For Hui, making tuak is demonstrating a multiplicity of identity. “Tuak holds the potential to showcase to the world that Sarawak is not only about tropical and ‘exotic’ experiences—we too have the potential to offer the finer side of things, including in our food and beverages.”
In terms of style, Hui’s tuak is rooted in Iban tradition, but she is clear that what they make is a contemporary take on the beverage. They add flavor to the brews using local fruits and ingredients, such as terung Dayak (an “Iban eggplant,” which is small orange fruit with similar taste to a tomato); locally grown hibiscus, or roselle; and Bario-grown passionfruit.
“Tuak holds the potential to showcase to the world that Sarawak is not only about tropical and ‘exotic’ experiences—we too have the potential to offer the finer side of things, including in our food and beverages.”
On the Rasa Instagram, Ying explains the different styles of tuak—for the Rasa Family Tuak, they like to have a slight fizz to the finish. “If you want something stronger, try the Iban tuak. It’s why they say Ibans have better parties,” she says with a laugh. Ying is Bidayuh, a name for a collective of Indigenous communities predominantly from the southern part of Sarawak; this group’s style of tuak is not as strong as the Iban’s, and often a little sweeter. “Traditionally, it’s a softer, rounder hit,” Ying explains. “Whereas Iban style, they leave it to ferment much, much longer. Hence, the stronger, dry hit.”
In my family, if there was such a thing as a master tuak maker, it would be my aunt, Jundah Anak Ranggau (or to us, Indai Dugu, or Dugu’s mother). Everyone talks about her tuak as being the best: not too sweet—we are Iban after all—but very smooth and easy to drink. She makes it for Gawai and New Year and her explanation, via WhatsApp, is very simple, but I know there is magic in there somewhere:
Masak beras pulut terlebih dahulu
Apabila beras pulut sudah sejuk, gaul dengan CHIPING
Selepas 2 minggu, masak air gula sebelum campur dengan ciping yang sudah digaul dengan beras pulut.
Masak air gula sampai mendidih
Selepas semua bahan tersebut digaul bersama,selepas 2 minggu baru dapat diminum😊
//
Cook the glutinous rice
Let to cool
After the glutinous rice is cool sprinkle some yeast and mix
After 2 weeks, make sugar water and mix it with the glutinous rice with the yeast, sugar water to be boiled
Mix all these together. Will be ready after 2 weeks
My cousin Cheryl added into the WhatsApp conversation, “While fermenting the glutinous rice with the yeast, it should be kept away from the kitchen, especially from sour things such as lime, lemon or anything acidic and ideally in a room with a low temperature. Do not open the cover until exactly two weeks later to avoid bacteria.”
“Wherever it is made, tuak is a reminder that all of what we consume is agriculture. All of what we consume is labor. The journey from soil to stomach is often lost, especially when what hits our lips is liquid, a form so different from the product’s early life in the field.”
Woon explains to me that no matter who you ask, the best tuak is always going to be “my grandmother’s” or the like. “[As a commercial producer] you can’t win, which is why we don’t try and we aim for consistency,” he says.
Wherever it is made, tuak is a reminder that all of what we consume is agriculture. All of what we consume is labor. The journey from soil to stomach is often lost, especially when what hits our lips is liquid, a form so different from the product’s early life in the field.
But what is clear across all these discussions—all the different techniques and approaches, and the various aims of the makers—is that what makes a tuak a tuak is the ingredients. It is a drink made from Sarawakian-grown produce, by Sarawakians. It is a drink that is made with pride about what Sarawak can produce. It is a drink deeply embedded in history, and by people who are looking to create history in the now. In its making it gets to be both a repetition and performance of traditional culture, while making room for newness and creativity.
Words by Anna Sulan MasingIllustrations by Sinjin Li
