Applying Arnstein’s Ladder of Citizen Participation

This framework, which aims to ensure authentic and effective community involvement in urban planning of residential areas, was a seminal publication that necessitated the redistribution of power to allow the usually marginalised a say in the planning, implementation and success of initiatives that directly affect them (Arnstein Reference Arnstein1969: 216; Gaber Reference Gaber2019: 190). This approach to empowering communities has always been the backbone of my community engagement work, with my overarching goal being to avoid intervention and the imposition of my interests and bias onto a local community, resulting in ‘non-participation’ or mere ‘tokenism’ (Gaber Reference Gaber2019: 189). It was imperative that locals were involved in programmes from the outset, and their implementation and outcomes were guided and directed by the community itself. This not only facilitates buy-in and ownership, but also enables them to contribute to plans that determine their futures (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 131; Willness et al. Reference Willness, Boakye-Danquah and Nichols2023: 113).

My early work in the community was in experiential environmental education for local youth. As such, I adapted approaches to community-engaged teaching and learning (Willness et al. Reference Willness, Boakye-Danquah and Nichols2023: 113) to ensure that the children were able to choose what they wanted to share with others. They were given both theoretical and practical (in situ and experiential) scientific information and lessons to complement pre-existing local ecological knowledge, trained as citizen scientists, and asked to create content that they felt was important and relevant to local interests and their futures (Kelly et al. Reference Kelly, Fleming, Pecl, von Gönner and Bonn2020: 2). This information was shared with visiting guests through community ecotourism, and with the wider community on Kelab Alami Open Days, where they would show off their scientific knowledge to friends and relatives. The later sections of this paper will evaluate this attempt to empower these children and plot the programme on Arnstein’s ladder.

Understanding Scholar-Activism

A communication scholar-activist works in the blended fields of social justice, using grounded, action-oriented and community-driven co-creation of interdisciplinary knowledge to challenge the status quo (Ramasubramanian and Sousa Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 490). However, to be called an ‘activist’ implies political action for change, a label that can be difficult to accept when research, by definition, is meant to be distant, objective, and impartial. The work of galvanising others to effect change can also be seen as a threat to more authoritarian regimes, or in societies where political and social hierarchies are the norm. The label is therefore an unwelcome marker in more delicate political environments, implying that someone is an agitator, with the intent of overthrowing power and power structures or inciting some form of resistance or revolution. It was for these reasons that I never had an affinity for the term ‘scholar-activist’ as it had too many negative and potentially dangerous connotations (Hern Reference Hern2016: 493; Ramasubramanian and Sousa Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 481). The closest I came to the recognition of self as both a researcher and an on-ground mobiliser was in the term ‘scholar-practitioner,’ which implies a ‘pracademic’ who has an ‘intimate awareness of practice’ and who walks in the boundaries between academia and on-ground implementation of ideas (Herbert Reference Herbert2010: 34).

Citizen Science for Community Empowerment

Instead, I saw myself as a community organiser and teacher on a quest to raise the standing of local ecological knowledge by burnishing it with a sheen of science, to be shared by the community with visitors to the habitats. Citizen science has been variably defined as ‘community-based laboratories,’ ‘volunteer recruitment’ for scientific programmes, and the ‘generation of scientific data [that] engages volunteers… and addresses a politically relevant issue’ (Haklay et al. Reference Haklay, Dörler, Heigl, Manzoni, Hecker, Vohland, Vohland, Land-Zandstra, Ceccaroni, Lemmens, Perelló, Ponti, Samson and Wagenknecht2021: 14). This approach to community-engaged research requires the tapping of local knowledge for scientific purposes (Kelly et al. Reference Kelly, Fleming, Pecl, von Gönner and Bonn2020: 2; Routledge and Derickson, Reference Routledge and Derickson2015: 399).

Forty local youth aged 7 to 18 years old underwent a long-termFootnote ¹ experiential environmental education programme under Kelab Alami, which enabled them to learn the principles and applications of science in relation to their understanding of local ecosystems. As part of citizen science training, they gathered both ecological knowledge from their elders and raw data from the surrounding natural environments. The youth then determined which information they would include in their sharing with visitors, either through lectures or guided habitat tours.Footnote ²

I taught them a wide breadth of environmental science, including ecology, taxonomy, and biology, to help them put a scientific structure to familiar surroundings, as well as research methodology so that they could ask questions that interested them and know how to find the answers. The youth decided what they would share with guests, and I facilitated the process by helping them with PowerPoint slides, funds for materials for skits, and other needs, and creating opportunities for sharing. The result was the co-creation of ‘new’ information that combined both local natural science and scientific knowledge, presented by local youth to visitors and tourists. This process was part of my original research objective to empower the community psychologically, politically, socially, and economically (R. Scheyvens and H. van der Watt Reference Scheyvens and van der Watt2021).

My participatory action research, then, was to test and determine myriad ways of empowering a community, and through that, amplify their voice, put forward their needs, and subsequently, protect the highly threatened coastal ecosystems.Footnote ³ The co-production of knowledge through environmental education and citizen science was my main tool to nudge social justice into place.Footnote ⁴ As the youth gained confidence and credibility through their work, we attended numerous meetings with the myriad entities around us. It was necessary to familiarise the youth with a world beyond village boundaries, and enable them to represent the community, as well as keep them visible in the eyes of those who essentially controlled their futures. They were active and prominent in discussions of how these varied stakeholders (developers, businesses, government agencies, and entities) could possibly collaborate with or support the community.Footnote ⁵

At the time, my obsession, based on my understanding of Arnstein’s Ladder of Participation, was to ensure a local voice by sharing content that the youth felt was important and genuinely wanted to share. Arnstein’s Ladder of Participation illustrates how communities can be either manipulated (at the bottom-most rungs) or empowered as partners or given control (at the top rungs) through authentic collaboration (Arnstein Reference Arnstein1969: 217). I wanted to ensure that the community organising work that I was doing was based on local needs and goals, so that I was merely a facilitator and not conducting an intervention. I claimed that I did not want to take the role of an external player dictating how and what the community should do and say, regardless of their interests and desires. Once the youth decided to study or pursue something, I trained them to achieve their goals, provided them with what they needed to make it happen, and held them accountable to their commitments. This phase spanned twelve years, from 2008 to 2020.

According to Carragee (Reference Carragee2024: 19), the hallmarks of Community Activism Research are a focus on social justice, researcher intervention to establish partnerships and co-produce knowledge, as well as collective mobilisation. While my personal motivation was simply a desire to make a positive difference, the effort spanned an extended period, required constant negotiation to accommodate the varied needs of both the community and surrounding stakeholders, and required much flexibility and some innovation to keep things going. I was not aware of it at the time, but all these qualities, according to Ramasubramanian and Sousa (Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 480), were the exact characteristics of scholar-activism.

Midway through this phase, coastal development in the area escalated, and large-scale reclamation projects in the narrow strait commenced without explanation or warning to the local community beyond the village heads.Footnote ⁶ Shalan Jum’at decided that we needed to do more than just ‘teach children about nature’ and find more concrete ways to improve fishermen’s incomes. My task was to find the capital needed for him to set up a seafood market (named Pasar Pendekar Laut or the Sea Warriors’ Market), where he ensured that fishermen were being paid twice the amount that other buyers (also locals) were paying. He also ensured high seafood quality while maintaining prices for customers. This offshoot initiative began in 2016 and was yet another activity under the larger Kelab Alami branding, but focused on direct economic improvements for the fishermen. The initiative also improved market access for local fishers’ seafood by engaging and negotiating with buyers and middlemen from the next district of Pontian and neighbouring Singapore.Footnote ⁷

It was at this time that I began to focus my academic research on the larger context of artisanal fisheries issues in Malaysia, encompassing rural and environmental politics, policies, and laws, as well as development threats and climate change impacts on coastal ecosystems and livelihoods. This was my attempt to gather information that would be useful to the community, and would support their own efforts for social justice (Rasch et al. Reference Rasch, van der Hout and Köhne2022: 2; Routledge and Derickson Reference Routledge and Derickson2015: 394). This marked my transition from mere communication activism to communication activism research (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 181), as well as progression up Arnstein’s Ladder of Citizen Participation. The knowledge I gained in the process of my work was helpful input into the local effort to overcome problems related to marine resource use and access, a declining local economy, and long-standing social inequities. It was mainly through this research that I better understood the obstacles facing the community, which we had previously attributed to the broad category of ‘development’ (Rahman Reference Rahman2017a; Reference Rahman2017b).

However, knowledge gain works both ways. Engagement with the fishermen and fisheries authorities also provided invaluable information for my academic work. Similarly, the co-creation of knowledge occurred through discussions with Shalan and other members of the community, especially with approximately 10 of the more active fishermen. The information I have accumulated has helped the community I’ve become a part of develop a plan to evolve a stronger voice and gain better access.

In 2022, this came in the form of the official registration of our fishermen-focussed efforts, which by then had diversified into a sustainable fisheries programme, a foodstall to support seafood market sales, strengthened ecotourism efforts, and the beginnings of a recreational fishing and aquaculture platform, directly under the Fisheries Department, as myKP Pendekar Laut (Sea Warriors’ Fisheries Organisation). The initiative remained under the Kelab Alami umbrella but had the added support of a government agency behind it. This made it more ‘official’ and helped us to leverage this recognition when engaging with political entities such as the regional fishing association, local politicians and their staff, as well as village heads.

In doing so, for the first time in years, the participating fishermen became properly legal; 70 percent of them had previously been fishing without official licences (Rahman Reference Rahman2022: 5). Nearshore and coastal fisheries licences in Malaysia are limited to prevent overexploitation. Individuals can be arrested and have their equipment and vessels confiscated if caught and charged by the Maritime Department. However, for generations, access to the application for these licenses was controlled by the fishing association. Local fishermen were told that they could obtain licenses exclusively through this association, but the opportunity was often only made available to those who supported the association’s leadership. Through direct engagement with and access to the Fisheries Department, our founder was able to bypass the association and bring the state fisheries officers to the jetty, ensuring that everyone in the area had a fair chance to apply for the license – including those who were not officially part of the myKP Pendekar Laut initiative. This was a coup, and one of our biggest achievements to date.

The work with the fishermen at this stage of community engagement was typical of scholar-activism as described by Ramasubramanian and Sousa (Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 479) and Carragee (2023: 18) in that it garnered knowledge from both research and local engagement which then resulted in co-created real-world solutions to facilitate systemic change and the promotion of social justice. The direct access to the fisheries’ governing body also meant that the fishermen had effectively eliminated bureaucratic layers (and hence gatekeepers and obstacles), transforming vertical power structures and entirely changing the platform on which fisheries’ players engage (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 18; Rasch et al. Reference Rasch, van der Hout and Köhne2022: 6). The creation of this organisation was effectively a direct challenge to oppressive structures such as the fisheries association and a rebalancing of power (Ramasubramanian and Sousa Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 486).

Another aspect of this process was the use of multiple communication channels to ensure a broader reach for information on fisheries’ community needs and livelihood threats (Hern Reference Hern2016: 120; Ramasubramanian and Sousa Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 483). It was very important that local ecological knowledge was recognised, and that fishermen were respected as local experts. Although initially reluctant, the fishermen eventually became more comfortable speaking to the media, and on several occasions were filmed for documentaries. As they saw themselves appear on national television news and print media, they began to gain confidence and ease in front of a reporter or camera.

One of the turning points was the documentary filming of their efforts to share seafood with communities in difficulty over the Covid-19 pandemic. This production, Jaring & Jaringan (Nets & Networks) by FactualTV (Leong 2023), was broadcast on a national free-to-air channel and featured on social media. They were also shown photos and clips of themselves on international news media, such as Channel News Asia, Al-Jazeera, and the South China Morning Post.

Yet another achievement was their inclusion and involvement in Seruan Setu (The Call of the Seagrass): Secret Gardens of the Sea, a gamelan theatre production by Rhythm in Bronze, which was performed in Kuala Lumpur in 2023, accompanied by an exhibition on the fishermen, their trade, and craftsmanship. The fishermen were invited to the capital city to watch the production; parts of the show, which were filmed on location in the village, were also aired on social media for everyone to see. Less than a decade on from an era when they would run away at the appearance of outsiders, these ornery seamen even obliged the producers with interviews and a little bit of artistic expression and acting on their boats. For me, this was huge progress in their ability to share stories with a world beyond their village, and a unique opportunity to amplify their voice through the innovative combination of performing arts and science.Footnote ⁸

In her analysis of the theory of social change (as applied to human psychology), Campbell (Reference Campbell2013: 47) discusses the social constructionist view of change in which a change in the way a community sees the world and its position in that world is considered empowerment in that they are better able to envision themselves in a better state. In this case, the fishermen realised that their stories had value and were worthy of being shared, which served to empower them and give them the confidence to take on other initiatives (Li Reference Li and Mosse2011: 102). This small-scale improvement, which was essentially a first step towards more concrete action, seems to also apply to my work with the local youth. They were able to see themselves as part of the discussion and dialogue with multiple stakeholders and make small efforts to improve their lot. However, this level of change does not necessarily have any impact on wider power inequalities (Cambell Reference Campbell2013: 53).

The materialist view that Campbell then examines (Reference Campbell2013: 47) results in emancipatory social transformation. This seems to describe myKP Pendekar Laut, which resulted in not just new ways of seeing (where the fishermen realised they were important receptacles of knowledge), but also the redistribution of power and wealth. The fishermen’s ability to finally attain fishing licenses also meant that they were eligible for government financial aid and other forms of assistance that they had previously been excluded from.

Campbell (Reference Campbell2013: 49) also points out that community mobilisation is frequently facilitated by an external change agent, and that dialogue, engagement, and critical planning between this entity and the community build solidarity, increase awareness of people’s rights, and collective agency. I realise now that I was that external change agent, facilitating, informing, and supporting the fishermen’s movement for visibility and voice. My work effectively “rendered technical” the invisible and unrecognised social mobilisation that they were doing amongst themselves (Li Reference Li and Mosse2011: 102). While I remained in the background, Shalan Jum’at used the knowledge he gained from my research to ensure more equity and opportunities for his fishermen by reaching out to those in authority to access rightful assistance and opportunities. I handled the paperwork and bureaucratic tasks in the background, serving as the English-speaking liaison.

Research on scholar-activism notes its consistently transdisciplinary approach (Ramasubramanian and Sousa Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 487). I am by training, a conservation scientist, with a background in education and communication that I use to help and empower the community. As a scientist, I found myself having to deal with not only matters of environmental conservation and marine ecology, but also myriad aspects of political ecology (see also Köhne Reference Köhne2022: 29). In activist roles, science is often used as ‘endorsement’ of a social or environmental campaign, and research outcomes must be stripped of complexity to facilitate understanding by the general public. This simplicity is counter-intuitive to scientific research, yet it is the science that lends ‘authority’ and ‘neutrality’ to community activism (Köhne Reference Köhne2022: 39). This was also the essence of what I did when I gave talks about the importance of our coastal habitats and the impacts of development and climate change impacts on both habitat and humans.

Citizen science is often deemed less thorough or valid because it is done by ‘unqualified’ members of the public with little training in the rigours of scientific study (David et al. 2023: 8). While there were limitations in the ability of the community to process data collected, it did not invalidate the value of the information that they provided. However, I realise that even as I keenly elevated local knowledge as a traditional science that did not need external ‘validation’ (Carragee 2023: 19; Ramasubramanian and Sousa Reference Ramasubramanian and Sousa2021: 486), I had to use my doctorate as ‘authentication’ of that view, especially when dealing with stakeholders in positions of power. It was only because I had the ‘credibility’ in terms of PhD certification that they could accept my ratification of local ecological knowledge.

Evaluating Intervention: Youth Programme Failure

The above paradox was just one of several issues that arose during my engagement with this community. By necessity, participative research of any kind requires substantial self-reflexivity and humility to learn from those we purport to help (Carragee 2023: 27; Hern Reference Hern2016: 123). While scholar-activism is known to be a long-term process, the time required to effectively accomplish positive change on the ground is also useful for the observation of impacts (both positive and negative) and reflect on lessons learnt. My seventeen years in this community have allowed me to step back and properly evaluate the outcome of my work, which I now recognise was undoubtedly scholar-activism.

In the early years, Kelab Alami received acclaim due to the village youth’s ability to unabashedly share scientific and local knowledge about their natural habitats. Their enthusiasm and ability in conducting research, which was then presented to developers, government agencies, and at international conferences, garnered much praise. Part of this, perhaps, was the expectation that ‘village youth’ would not know so much nor understand science. Friends who are university lecturers commented that the youths’ questions were far more discerning than undergraduates’ inquiries, and visitors were impressed by their confidence in sharing stories of their natural history and heritage.

I was intent on achieving authentic ‘participation’ (‘Citizen Control’ on Arnstein’s Ladder of Participation (1969: 217)) by having the youth decide what they wanted to take from the expanse of knowledge I gave them and derive their own tour and lecture content. But, they were truthfully only at the ‘Delegated Power’ or ‘Partnership’ stages of the ladder. It was my decision to create the environmental education programme, and while they volunteered to become a part of it, they had no choice but to listen to the content and conduct the activities that I created for them. It was also my decision that they should become ecotourism guides and create content to share with guests. While they did this willingly and excitedly (as fun activities to do, and an opportunity to be at sea, and meet people from outside the region), they were not given the option to determine any other means of learning or sharing knowledge.

Many of the youth joined the programme because there was nothing else to do in the village at the time. They were eager to learn and have fun activities (and food) as part of the experience.Footnote ⁹ It was also because of their expected willingness to receive this education that the youth were selected for the programme to begin with. The effort would have been much harder if environmental education had been taught to the fishermen or their wives.Footnote ¹⁰ I also decided, as part of my ‘experiments’ for effective community empowerment, that it would be the children who would then teach their elders about the importance of their natural habitats and the need to protect them. All in all, I was the one who determined the process, learning outcomes, and end-goal in that first phase of the Kelab Alami journey – we were not at the Citizen Control stage of the Ladder. We were also functioning based on my definitions of empowerment; at no point did I ask what empowerment meant to them.Footnote ¹¹

In the second stage of ‘youth empowerment’, development escalated (in 2015), and some of the youth graduated from high school (or dropped out) and worked for Kelab Alami either full-time or part-time. By this time, Shalan had stepped up and taken over effective leadership by stipulating that we needed to do more for the community to cope with inevitable and irreversible change. In the spirit of Citizen Control under Arnstein’s Ladder of Participation, we had many workshops for the youth to discuss and set their own goals and targets within the broader vision established by the founder.

At this point, they were developing research projects and creating new tourism packages based on their interests and what they felt was important for the community to share. Their work ranged from scientific research to community tourism, local youth education, and event facilitation, to administrative support. However, while they determined the pathways through which to share stories of their local heritage, I was the one who decided that they should take action to preserve their history, as well as apply what they had learned as citizen scientists for publication and presentation at international conferences. While they were willingly involved and eager to learn and perform as necessary, I set the overarching targets for them to ‘gain credibility’ from an academic or urban point of view. I helped train them so that they could reach the set targets, but their having to do daunting, unfamiliar, and unprecedented tasks, such as conference presentations and engagement with government officers, often left them stressed and burdened by responsibilities that few others in the village faced. Even when they spoke English with guests, they were sometimes ridiculed by peers and others in the community.Footnote ¹²

While I believed that I was designing a programme that might increase their participation, interest, and commitment, simply because they determined how they wanted to achieve the goals (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 131), later reflections on the process revealed that I was wrong. I was actually running on the assumption that I should have the ‘power’ to determine how our collaboration would work, even though I did intend for them to decide on the details. I assumed that I would know best what would be relevant and important based on my personal experience and education (Routledge and Derickson Reference Routledge and Derickson2015: 401).

If this process had been truly participatory, the youth would have been the ones to decide what constituted ‘credibility’ in their eyes and how they might attain it. They may not have chosen the route of research, high-level engagement, and public speaking, even though we saw that they had the ability and potential to achieve it. In their culture, striving far beyond the norm or doing the unusual is not a common practice, which led to them being under some pressure from family and friends. While they gamely worked to reach the targets set and felt some pride in their appearance in online and print media, as well as television or in the news, there was also a level of embarrassment and shyness. It was not necessarily what they asked for or expected when they embarked on the journey with Kelab Alami.

Beyond having to overcome fears and embarrassment, the youth also had to tackle questions raised by customary roles and gender boundaries. This is a conservative Muslim community where girls are expected to grow up to become mothers. Few hold jobs that require them to be outdoors, conduct scientific research, or engage with strangers. Some of the locals were uncomfortable that the young villagers were even in contact with me, as I was a ‘city girl’ who had the gall to live alone in their village.Footnote ¹³ Some children were frequently told that they should not listen to or spend time with me simply because I did not meet their religious benchmarks. One set of siblings was pulled out of the programme because their father decided that they were better off going to religious classes than learning ‘science’ from an ‘inappropriately attired’ female teacher.Footnote ¹⁴

Interestingly, when the youth progressed through school and began working with us part-time, a few girls remained, with the support of their fathers, who were fishermen. These men were familiar with my work at the jetty and at sea, and had seen that my focus was on learning more about their maritime history and environment. While they seemed interested at first, these girls faced considerable pressure from their mothers and aunts. One mother in particular often yelled at me at weddings and petrol stations, telling me that her daughter’s place was “in the kitchen, taking care of her parents and brothers,” and that “she didn’t need an education as she would just get married or work in a factory.” With her father’s support, however, she stayed with the programme for a little longer. Other mothers recoiled at my invitation to teach their daughters English, telling me that they did not need it, as the girls’ future was to ‘work in a nearby factory and have children,’ and there was no need for them to speak English to anyone.

For many of the girls in the programme, involvement in Kelab Alami resulted in unbearable pressure. A few withdrew because their boyfriends or fiancés did not want them to work in such an ‘irregular and unusual’ field. Others simply wanted to get married and bear children as soon as possible (not work) because this had always been their dream.

The Covid-19 pandemic period was an especially difficult time, as Kelab Alami research and project funding completely dried up, as did opportunities for education and tourism income. Despite this, we kept our staff on salary because too many others in the community had lost jobs and income. Malaysia went into a total economic shutdown for a few months, and then the economy struggled to return to normal, with many small businesses having to close. We were able to keep running because I was still working full-time at a research institute, albeit from home, and my salary was able to cover the youths’ payments. The seafood market was also able to keep running as we set up a fund-raising initiative to buy fish that were caught (fishermen could still head out to sea), then the seafood was delivered and donated to those in the state capital who had lost jobs and were facing food insecurity. This enabled the fishermen to keep earning money and the seafood they caught did not go to waste.Footnote ¹⁵

This, however, was a turning point for us, as it was after this period that most of our staff were either terminated or left for other options. A few decided to work in Singapore when the borders reopened post-Covid, as the exchange rate was far more attractive than any full-time salary we could offer. Of the boys, some succumbed to their friends’ advice to opt for work that was not as difficult, did not require them to multitask and speak English, nor wake up too early. One particularly promising individual who did not finish high school gave in to drugs and disappeared. A few of the youth had to be terminated for dishonesty and inability to meet basic work requirements, as well as other expectations.

It was at this point (very recently) that we realised that the youth programme ultimately failed. While the youths shone in their early years, as they reached the ages of 18 to 24, their goals in life changed from wanting to protect their natural habitats for the community to the more typical social expectations of settling down to raise a family, work in more conventional fields (such as in factories, as security guards, cleaners, or food delivery riders) and abide by gender roles. I realise now that while they were initially enthusiastic, the goals of environmental protection and community service were not their dreams and not what they had grown up believing would be their future. I had brought something unusual and extraordinary to the village, and it was fun to be a part of it for a while, but it was not really what they wanted for themselves in the long term.

Two girls did well, going on to university, but they wanted to find work that matched their field of study, rather than the tasks required of them at Kelab Alami. For those who may have been mildly interested in the nature and flexibility of work at our organisation, the social pressure to conform was often too strong to withstand.

It is also possible that the youths’ exposure to a world very different from their own gave them a vision that they could not achieve or attain. This was especially so for those with less education, strong peer pressure, and drug-fuelled distractions. Instead of empowerment, they were disheartened. The goals that they had set perhaps seemed unattainable, as development cannot be stopped (instead, it escalated over time). Perhaps engagement with stakeholders did not make them feel like they were making headway, but showed them how severely imbalanced the power structure was.

As part of my constant efforts to reflect and evolve the programme that we were running (Butz and Besio Reference Butz and Besio2009: 1666; Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 124; Routledge and Derickson Reference Routledge and Derickson2015: 392), I often wondered whether, contrary to my goal of helping these youth, I was instead showing them a world so alien, and so unachievable, that I was poisoning them. Perhaps they would have been better off not knowing about the consequences of impending urbanisation and ecological damage, and might have been able to live happily in comfortable ignorance of the realities beyond their immediate circle. These communities often can live in simple satisfaction with life as it is. As change came slowly, like boiling water, perhaps they would have gradually adapted to it as a matter of course, with less of the pain and helplessness that awareness of the inevitable brings.

Shalan had hoped that a few of the youth would be able to take over and lead the initiative, but this was not their interest. According to Arnstein’s Ladder of Participation and the principles of scholar-activism, it is not our place to force them to take on these roles. Perhaps if I had asked them at the outset about their understanding of the term ‘empowerment’ they might have revealed that it was (for the girls) marriage and children, and (for the boys) to be able to wake up and work whenever they wanted to, independent and unconfined by requirements of a regular job. It is clear from the analysis of the full cycle of this endeavour that there was no true ‘Citizen Control’ by the youth over this programme, and coupled with other extraneous factors such as Covid, peer and family pressure, and the allure of drugs, this component of the programme did not entirely succeed.

Evaluating Intervention: Unexpected Fishermen’s Success

In contrast to the youth programme, the efforts for the fishermen turned out some highly unexpected results. This section will examine the differences between the youth programme and the myKP Pendekar Laut effort.

In the first instance, the field of work for both programmes is vastly different. While the youth had learnt about science at a young age,Footnote ¹⁶ the areas of community ecotourism, citizen science, and environmental education facilitation were completely unfamiliar to everyone in these villages. While children and youth were initially selected to be the recipients of the programme because they were blank slates, eager and willing to learn, as they grew older, these job scopes were far removed from what anyone else in their community was used to.

For some, the work that these youth did was merely ‘play,’ and did not yield any benefit to themselves or society. These detractors, who had neither interest in nor understanding of environmental protection and science, did not know that the youth were being paid full (and quite competitive) salaries. Despite the following that these youth generated outside the community because of their unique abilities, many in the villages were unaware of their popularity and did not understand their levels of success. These achievements did not fall into their definition of ‘success’ (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 122). Even though the youth and Kelab Alami won awards and international accolades, and news of this was posted on our social media, not everyone had access to this information, knew about it, or cared. It was not content that resonated with the community, thus they did not pay attention to it. While media coverage might have garnered them external respect and funder interest, and hence multiple aspects of ‘empowerment’ as defined by urban societies and academia (Scheyvens and van der Watt Reference Scheyvens and van der Watt2021: 12), this was irrelevant and of no interest to the community.

For many, the youth involved in Kelab Alami were far better off settling down to marriage, childbearing, and factory work, as it was understood as more appropriate (and conventional) ‘work’ and ‘responsibility’ for a young adult. Working irregular hours, in seagrass and mangroves, or attending meetings and conferences in other districts were not practices that were visible, nor deemed useful or sensible.Footnote ¹⁷

In contrast, everything the fishermen did under myKP Pendekar Laut was related to fishing, a field familiar and meaningful to the community. In the early days, the fishermen were hesitant to get involved in Kelab Alami. They attended community open days and sports events organised by Shalan to garner wider support, and benefited from farm produce that the youth planted and harvested. However, they were not entirely sold on, nor did they understandd the need for the myriad other initiatives.

As time passed and they earned additional income as tourism boat captains, they began to discern the possibility of economic gain. Initially, they refused to engage with or even make eye contact with visitors, even as they took them out on their boats to the seagrass and island for tours. They did not even dare to give guests safety instructions for getting onto or disembarking from the boats, instead whispering the information to the youth guides or me to convey to the guests.

When Shalan first set up Pasar Pendekar Laut in 2016, he only had three fishermen who would send their catch to him. However, as the others saw that they could earn more – even with more stringent requirements related to species size, quality, and sustainability, they felt it was worth the effort to join him. By 2022, approximately 40 fishermen were sending their catch to our market.

Key to the success of this part of Kelab Alami was the fact that our founder is a man who came from a broadly respected family (in contrast to me, an unknown female from the city).Footnote ¹⁸ He also had the personal charismatic ability to bring disparate family groups and fishermen together.Footnote ¹⁹ The choice of ‘Pendekar Laut’ (Sea Warriors) as the name of his market, with a pirate ship logo, was also a well-calculated move to tap into a popular film that many were familiar withFootnote ²⁰, as well as local maritime history. Many in the village are of Bugis descent, and the Bugis are renowned seamen and pirates.Footnote ²¹ It eventually became a badge of honour to be part of the Pendekar Laut team, complete with a black shirt emblazoned with the organisation’s pirate logo.

The fishermen would also wear their Pendekar Laut shirts to sea. There were a few occasions when they had trouble with the Singapore coast guard and were subsequently featured in viral videos and national news feeds wearing their Pendekar Laut shirts, arguing for their right to fish in disputed waters.Footnote ²² This infamy seemed to further increase the pride they had in the organisation and its branding. They seemed to truly feel ‘empowered’ by their uniform and this recognition.

If imitation is the highest form of flattery, this was also occurring in the village as other seafood stalls nearby began to create their own pirate logos as fishermen moved to join Pasar Pendekar Laut. At one stage, several other seafood markets near the jetty also featured pirate names and banners strung across their shops.

Because he realised fish catch was on the decline, Shalan tried to speak to the fishermen about developing other sources of income, such as agriculture, aquaculture, and even a car wash endeavour. The response was lukewarm because they had not yet felt a fall in their incomes. There was also a general distrust of grand ideas that promised improvements because the community had often been disappointed by politicians’ and other groups’ empty promises in the past (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 117). Over the Covid period, however, there was a sharp decline in catch (Rahman Reference Rahman2024: 23), and many had to scramble for alternative ways to bring home much-needed cash for their families. Despite the initial disinterest, Shalan persisted by starting the food stall at the jetty to support the fishermen’s wives,Footnote ²³ and began working on a plan to build a fishing platform. Initially, one or two fishermen decided to help out, then others turned up to support building or renovation work when they needed an injection of funds, as they were paid for their time and skills. They were thus eventually able to see that the initiatives created were relevant to their interests and needs. Everything they did was tasks that were not unfamiliar in the village, in areas where they had experience. This was one of the key differences between this programme and the initiatives for the youth.

This occurred because the driving factor behind this part of the programme was Shalan, who, as a local, knew what best resonated with his people. This was the prime example of ‘Citizen Control’ as it was a local who decided on the objectives, desired outcomes, and pathways to achieve those goals – all with input from others in his community. My job was to source information and facilitate in the background. We had effectively moved up Arnstein’s Ladder of Citizen Participation.

There were several other turning points. When we registered directly with the Fisheries Department, several visits were made by the relevant government agencies. The fishermen noticed this and the increased engagement with high-ranking officials. They began to realise that the fishing association that they had all submitted to in the past was now irrelevant. The founder also increasingly shared information garnered from my research, related to the wider context of what they faced as fishers, and to why they were at the bottom of the pecking order. When they were all finally awarded fishing licenses, everything that had been discussed rang true.

This was the evidence that they needed to understand and believe the bigger picture that we had painted. Suddenly, they realised that the doors had opened for them, and also gave them access to more food and financial aid.Footnote ²⁴ The direct engagement with the Fisheries Department effectively flattened the hierarchy, illustrating the horizontality discussed by Rasch et al. (Reference Rasch, van der Hout and Köhne2022: 6) and how the broader movement by Kelab Alami helped to reform traditional power structures (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 120).

In 2021, our founder received a national award in recognition of his work for the fishermen, garnering extensive news and media coverage in both Malay and English. Many of the celebratory photographs also featured the fishermen to whom he dedicated the win, generating positive responses from the wider community. The founder has a substantial presence on social media, and news of the award had a wide-reaching impact.Footnote ²⁵ As the fishermen became more comfortable speaking to strangers, reporters, and in front of a camera, even the most reluctant fishermen evolved to be able to easily answer questions, and they took turns at being featured in numerous media outlets.

Not only did this expand their audience, which is a key component in scholar-activism, but it also empowered them as they began to believe that people wanted to hear what they had to say. Being able to see themselves on screen, in print, and even in international news portals engendered pride and ownership in their heritage and themselves. As our founder continued to speak about environmental protection, they also followed suit, sharing stories about development and the impacts of climate change, as well as the effects of all this on themselves, the seafood, and their livelihoods. Our founder was effectively a local champion and social media influencer.

There are several differences between this evolution and that of the youth involved in the earlier stages of Kelab Alami. When Shalan and the fishermen spoke, the community deemed them as experts who knew the marine habitats well and were thus credible. Posts made by Shalan on already familiar content utilised content styles, music, and phrasing that were simpler and more accessible to the community. While it was also local youth posting about Kelab Alami efforts in science and education, because the content was more ‘high-brow,’ it was seen as young people being impertinent or ‘showing off.’ Academic science and education are not as highly valued as the opinions and words of male adults. This was especially so when female youth were seen engaging with strangers or attending external meetings - this was actually deemed highly inappropriate.

Yet another turning point in the views of the fishermen was the gamelan production in Kuala Lumpur, when a few members of the community were taken to the city to watch it,Footnote ²⁶ and saw for themselves how they were central to the production’s narrative. They were stunned by the exhibition featuring them, and the interest that it generated in their community and work. They began to realise that when we brought visitors to them, many genuinely respected their net-making craftsmanship and the skill required of their trade. Over time, the fishermen took over the sharing of their fishing heritage, requiring only me or our interns to translate what they were saying. No longer was there any fear or shyness in dealing with tourists. I saw that they were beginning to enjoy demonstrating their craft, and egged each other on to be the ‘teacher of the day.’

A sustainable fisheries programme that we implemented to ensure the release of endangered species, such as shovelnose and eagle rays, sharks, turtles, and others, if accidentally caught, began to gain traction as we publicised (with pride) the fishermen’s efforts for the marine ecosystem. I began to receive voluntary reports of endangered species (dugongs, seahorses, bull and whale sharks) and corpses (Indo-Pacific finless porpoises and turtles) that were spotted at sea, as well as problems such as large marine debris (often construction waste), oil spills, and other unusual sightings. The fishermen proactively reported changes in species seasonality, movements, water temperatures, and actively pointed out species that I had not seen or documented before. There was pride in what they were doing as they realised that I needed their help to report this information, and that our combined work would be sent back to the Fisheries Department and used for policy inputs and problem-solving. Rasch et al. (Reference Rasch, van der Hout and Köhne2022: 6) refer to this as an example of ‘non-hierarchical knowledge production.’ In fact, the fishermen understood that their knowledge was superior to mine (I always made it a point to mention this).

For me, this was the epitome of knowledge co-production, and I was finally ‘walking alongside and listening’ as Rasch et al. recommended. Our fishermen even began to scold those not under our programme for bringing back endangered species instead of releasing them. In revising their empowerment framework, Scheyvens and van der Watt (Reference Scheyvens and van der Watt2021: 23) added environmental and cultural empowerment as aspects that should be considered for communities embarking on tourism as a source of income. Here, we see it as a consequence of their desire to preserve a traditional livelihood, as well as showcase their knowledge for tourism and environmental preservation.

Their actions accurately display characteristics of a community coming together to mobilise for science and conservation, as well as to help themselves cope with change and develop supplementary livelihoods. Towards the end of 2023, they all worked together not only to expand their jetty but also to finally build and complete the fishing platform. They realised that these projects were potential sources of income for them, as they were paid for their labour. However, there was genuine ownership and pride in the fact that they were able to accomplish all of this themselves, without the need for a big sponsor or government agency involvement.

As I observed the fishermen’s evolution, I was stunned by how they had come together, and I too was proud of how much they included me in their discussions and reporting. I also noticed that they were not just standing up to help themselves; they were also more discerning in the aid that was offered to them. They no longer believed politicians’ promises (in return for votes), and they were self-sufficient enough to tell me that if potential funders wanted to hold us to ransom for free and uncontrolled use of our services, or gave me too much grief in the process, we did not need that kind of support. They believed that they could find an alternative way to achieve their goals. This was a clear demonstration of the agency that they had attained in making such decisions and declaring it as an instruction to me (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 118).

The biggest validation of their work came in mid-2024 when the myKP Pendekar Laut won the National Fisheries Community Organisation Icon Award for their efforts. In their willingness to monitor and report on conditions at sea, they demonstrated their acute capability to take Arnstein’s Ladder of Participation to the next level, by working for the collaborative care of common goods (Ciaffi Reference Ciaffi2019: 170). This is now our goal: to establish a community-led conservation area in the western Tebrau Strait, in collaboration with other stakeholders and government agencies. This concept has been discussed with numerous state and federal agencies and presented to Fisheries Department heads in the federal capital.Footnote ²⁷ It is also another opportunity for fishermen to earn a source of income as marine rangers for the waters they know best (Bennett et al. Reference Bennett, Katz, Yadao-Evans, Ahmadia, Atkinson, Ban, Dawson, de Vos, Fitzpatrick, Gill, Imirizaldu, Lewis, Mangubhai, Meth, Muhl, Obura, Spalding, Villagomez, Wagner, White and Wilhelm2021: 5).

Reflecting on the differences in how these initiatives turned out, it is clear that the fishermen’s programme was authentically citizen-controlled, the apex stage of Arnstein’s Ladder of Citizen Participation. It was led by our founder, Shalan Jum’at, fed with information from me, built upon discussions with other fishermen, and motivated by their needs and interests. Reinforcement came in the form of media coverage, constant requests for fishermen’s input and expertise, and numerous awards and accolades achieved at the national and international levels. Shalan was key to this success, not just because he was the local champion and public influencer, but also because he was the one who navigated local politics and the village hierarchy. These men in positions of power were loath to speak to or acknowledge me, a ‘woman with an education’.

I had always intended to stay away from engagement with the village hierarchy and politicians, as it was clear that my gender and lack of conformity to local conservative expectations of a woman’s role were unhelpful in any negotiation or efforts to improve local circumstances. It was vital for everyone’s ‘face’ (so that all the men involved were not ‘shamed’ by the presence or input of a female) that I stayed in the background. Yet at the same time, in a convoluted way, my academic position, the information that it allowed me to access, and the fact that I am the founder’s spouse strengthened the voice that he had, as those he engaged with realised that he spoke based on data, research and access to a world beyond village boundaries. As long as none of these men had to publicly acknowledge that this credibility or knowledge came from a woman, and I stayed out of the public eye, all was well. Given local gender practices, it was a calculated strategy for me to redirect any accolade or recognition to the founder and the fishermen.

Routledge and Dickenson (Reference Routledge and Derickson2015: 401) describe this as a shift in power, where it is the fishermen who lead the way to tell their story and effect change, especially in the media and other public channels. The academic knowledge that I had and that was pushed to the background was also an indication of increasing social equity, as local knowledge came to the fore in marine conservation practice (Bennett et al. Reference Bennett, Katz, Yadao-Evans, Ahmadia, Atkinson, Ban, Dawson, de Vos, Fitzpatrick, Gill, Imirizaldu, Lewis, Mangubhai, Meth, Muhl, Obura, Spalding, Villagomez, Wagner, White and Wilhelm2021: 3).

While the youth programme also garnered accolades, awards, and international recognition, this was not visible to the wider community, unlike the successes of the fishermen. The scope of work that garnered external recognition for the youth was beyond the understanding of their peers, family, and broader networks. Both initiatives were under Kelab Alami, but the work by the youth involved education, research, and sharing knowledge in spaces beyond the village. These aspects were not visible to other villagers, and were areas that the founder did not initially engage in as he felt they were beyond his expertise (although he did address them in his own way, on social media or at the jetty, in a safe space). It was not clear to the community how any of this education and research benefited them directly.

Thus, while our founder helped to publicise the youths’ achievements, he was not on the ground with them during their work; they were with me. His lack of physical presence and in-depth understanding of the details of what they did made a difference, as the villagers (especially the women) did not necessarily see me as a positive influence. This was a consequence of the widespread perception that I was emblematic of a ‘problematic city girl who broke all gender norms.’ While the fishermen who saw me work at the jetty and at sea had no issue with me personally, I was still not necessarily an example they would want their daughters to follow. Local women generally remain disdainful even though I have now been married into the community for more than a dozen years. This is just how it is in these rural communities; it is not unusual for people to be wholly suspicious of outsiders who come into their midst. However, it does have repercussions for the programme we had with local youth, and for youth who were constantly being told to choose other paths as they grew older.

Interestingly, now that the fishermen are more involved in data collection and speaking to others about habitat changes, Shalan is creating social media posts about our seagrass and mangrove habitats and the need to conserve them. While he notes that it does not garner as much response and engagement as other posts, I notice that there are more who comment with queries or interest, far more than on any of the youth’s past posts. Again, the key is who did the posting and how the content is made. The strength of fishermen as champions for and experts of their habitats, taking the initiative to contribute to seagrass and mangrove restoration experiments, is invaluable. This is a clear demonstration of the empowerment that Scheyvens and van der Watt (Reference Scheyvens and van der Watt2021) envisioned.

As the youth went through multiple phases of life, their interests and goals constantly evolved. The fishermen, on the other hand, although initially harder to engage with and slower to catch on, were stable in their roles as mature adults and had a clear understanding of what they needed to do to survive change. There was clear evidence to them that the actions taken by Shalan were truly effective in alleviating their troubles and increasing access and equity for them. This was not at all obvious to the youth, who faced additional stresses and strains in taking on work that was both uncommon and unappreciated by their friends and family, and thus found it more trouble than it was worth.

Conclusion and Takeaways

This paper has demonstrated the limitations of Arnstein’s Ladder of Participation and highlighted many key takeaways from Carragee’s analysis of communication activism research. Although the former is a good benchmark to ensure that local communities are equal partners in a project, there are numerous other factors that can impact the progress of community engagement and empowerment efforts, such as this. Participation is not as clear-cut as is implied by Arnstein’s framework, and is often an evolving process. The key is whether both parties (the activist and the community) evolve to work together to co-create a solution for the issues at hand. These complications were also raised by Arnstein herself (Reference Arnstein1969: 217; Gaber Reference Gaber2019: 197) as she realised that there is no distinct boundary between the stages on the ladder, and many other externalities that can impede progress.

As shown above, time is a key factor in enabling a community to come to a stage where they can take the lead, when education, exposure, experience, and credibility are stacked against them. Slow scholarship (Rasch et al. Reference Rasch, van der Hout and Köhne2022: 7) is the necessary result of long-term scholar-activism if authentically impactful outcomes are to emerge from initiatives like this. However, age has also turned out to be another key component that affects the proceedings. While the youth began keen to learn and share in the early days, their age turned out to be the reason why they could not stay with the programme long-term. They were still transient in their life phases and goals, whereas the adults who took longer to coax into joining the programme were stable in their life phases and thus better able to see how externally imposed change would ultimately affect them. This then drove them to participate more actively in the initiatives that we put forward. Carragee (Reference Carragee2024: 130) described this difference as one where the youth were objects acted upon (on the lower rungs of Arnstein’s Ladder of Citizen Participation), whereas the fishermen were purposive agents who were acting on their own initiative (at the highest level of the Ladder).

The difference in success can also be attributed to a continuum, encompassing the different phases that communication activism requires (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 119), as I had to attain the trust of the community. It took the entire first phase of Kelab Alami, along with the living example of the youth programme, for the fishermen to be convinced of the credibility of our efforts for their benefit. In other words, the fishermen’s programme may not have been possible or as successful if there had been no youth programme before it to pave the way. This is the ‘slowness’ that Rasch et al. (Reference Rasch, van der Hout and Köhne2022: 7) refer to; trust must be built, and solutions and information must be co-created, shared, and discussed.

Local ecological knowledge and information gathered through academic study, whether in politics or science, are of equal importance and can complement each other in deriving a locally relevant solution that can overcome localised issues and problems. Loch and Riechers (2021: 7) emphasise the importance of indigenous and local knowledge (ILK) in research, conservation practice, and ecosystem management. This process is clearly mutually beneficial, and all stakeholders need to enter the dialogue with a view to achieving a mutually positive outcome for everyone.

Youth are easy to engage with, but they will evolve over time. Success with them was a quick win, and even though their programme was done with due care, it was not enough, nor truly at the top rung of Arnstein’s Ladder. Youth are also more susceptible to peer, partner, and parental pressures, meaning that their goals and life choices are not yet stable or clear. It was highly possible that they were overwhelmed by the challenges that lay ahead (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 137), and returning to their original dreams was the least daunting path. They deserved the space and agency to make their own decisions as they saw fit, and it was not my prerogative to decide their futures for them, nor to force them to evolve their dreams to match our overarching hopes and intentions.

It is not the place of a scholar-activist to decide what communities need, because my understanding would be clouded by my privilege, position, and background, no matter how long I have lived among them. As much as my ‘insiderness’ allows me unparalleled access to their world, preventing me from essentialising their views, I will always remain an ‘outsider’ given my differences (Butz and Besio Reference Butz and Besio2009: 1670). Carragee writes about the challenges faced by those involved in communication activism research, describing a somewhat arduous journey with both emotional and intellectual tolls (Reference Carragee2024: 192). I concur that researchers will feel pulled in all directions, and I always felt that I was treading a fine line between community organising and valid research. Striking a balance and maintaining an objective distance when I was a primary participant in the community programme was not easy. Self-reflexive practices, while critical (Butz and Besio Reference Butz and Besio2009: 1662; Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 118), often left me with severe self-doubt.

Documentation throughout the process is important not just as a record of what has taken place, but to observe how every participant (including the researcher) evolved. Authoethnographic journaling was a helpful habit not just for effective scholar-activism but also as a form of self-therapy given the personal complications of being married into the community and doing work that severely contravened gender norms and familial expectations (Ettorre Reference Ettorre2017: 4). My position, situatedness, and emotional ties needed to be acknowledged and recognised, yet reflected on in the vein of action research, so as to find better ways to mobilise and empower a community to achieve its myriad goals. I have tried to do this throughout my 17-year journey, and this paper has also allowed me to reflect on the effectiveness of my work and actions on the ground.

This publication has exposed much of the vulnerability of this ‘borderless’ position as an ‘insider-outsider’ unintentional scholar-activist (Ettorre Reference Ettorre2017: 7), and the ‘bridge’ between two very different worlds (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 183; Setiasih et al. Reference Setiasih, Tun, Serina Rahman, Quazi, Bernal, Borkhanuddin, Fikri, Gainsford, Go, Iskandar, Jaafar, Jawalani, Kakuma, Kiatkajornphan, Larwuy, Lazuardi, Lionata, Mertaekales, Nand, Nasrun, Nordiansyah, Permana, Prabowo, Ramadani, Rivero, Samsuri, Shahir, Sofjan, Veitayaki, Wambugu, Yucharoen, Yusuf and Zuhal2025: 40), and highlights some of the unexpected difficulties therein. Perhaps these methodologies and reflections will help to ‘de-romanticise’ scholar-activism (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 193), and encourage dialogue and debate about best practices (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 189) in co-creating knowledge for social justice. If not, it might serve as reassurance (as reading other publications did for me) that there are others in the same boat.

As mentioned as one of the key takeaways from communication activism research, there is huge personal satisfaction that can come out of the processes of this work (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 193), not to mention the deep personal ties that can emerge from an extended relationship with a community. I realise now that even the failures were useful as part of the learning process and scholarship (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 193), and that while not all issues of inequity can be resolved or overcome, there are positive outcomes that can be celebrated (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 138).

This paper and the work it discusses were only possible because this community was willing to offer me the space to live among them, as well as to work with me on our shared solidarities and goals, and perhaps because I genuinely value their knowledge and input. The fishermen are more than just the subjects of my research; however, critical distance was required to understand the views of local women and those who did not engage directly with me (Carragee Reference Carragee2024: 191). We now have the luxury of time and hindsight to properly analyse our efforts thus far and determine how we can move forward from here.