Thick haze blankets Klang Valley (JULY 22 2025) — ART CHEN/The Star
THE tropical fire season is back and so is the usual script. Cue the haze, cue the headlines, cue the finger-pointing.
As The Star (July 28) reported, Singapore, Indonesia and Malaysia now face a “medium” risk of severe haze in 2025 – up from last year’s “low.” Translation? Things are heating up.
The air thickens, the sky turns sepia, health warnings, N95 respirator facemasks up and the blame spreads faster than the flames.
Satellite dots appear, outrage flares and like clockwork, oil palm plantations and companies are cast as the usual suspects. Trial by public opinion, guilt by logo.
The truth is far more complex. Many fires may start from dry peatlands, other annual crop burning, shifting cultivation, land conflicts or legal loopholes. Painting oil palm planters as fire-happy villains oversimplifies a tangled reality. In the annual haze drama, nuance is the first casualty – scapegoats, the easy headline.
A dose of basic logic
Before we reach for pitchforks, let’s pause and apply some basic logic. If I’m wrong, and my reasoning’s out, I rest my case. But if I’m right, perhaps it’s time we look beyond the usual immediate suspects.
Yes, fires sometimes happen near plantations. But why would any rational planter set fire to carefully planted productive, fertilised land that’s yielding crop then or in future? That’s not just foolish. It’s self-sabotage.
Professionally run estates in fire-prone areas are often well equipped to prevent and fight them.
Most enforce strict no-burn policies, invest in drones, patrol teams, water tankers, fire towers and even maintain firefighting squads on standby.
They wouldn’t spend millions if not intend to prevent and stop fires. More often, fires drift in from elsewhere, and the concession holder gets blamed. It’s the plantation version of being caught with someone else’s matchstick.
If burning starts or happens on a plantation, it’s usually during land clearance, not harvesting – and these bad actors must be held accountable.
Today, zero-burning isn’t just best practice – it’s the law, with serious legal and reputational risks. Unlike sugarcane or rice, fire has no place in oil palm management. It’s not a tool – it’s a manager’s nightmare!
Zero-burning: Baseline expectation
Once upon a time, clearing land in the tropics took little more than a matchstick and dry weather. It was cheap and “efficient” – until the smoke choked cities, grounded planes and embarrassed companies and nations.
That pre-90s era is over. The turning point? The 1997-1998 haze crisis, which turned palm oil into a global scapegoat and forced a hard rethink.
Malaysia responded with its Zero Burning Policy in 1999 and Indonesia followed suit.
What began as good practice is now strict law and policy, and also backed by sustainability standards like the Roundtable on Sustainable Palm Oil, the Malaysian Sustainable Palm Oil and the Indonesian Sustainable Palm Oil.
It has become the industry’s conscience. Today, lighting a fire isn’t just reckless, it’s a fast lane to losing your licence, market access and reputation.
Peat fires: Slow-burning nightmare
Let’s talk about the worst fire offender: peat areas. Tropical peatlands – rich in ancient carbon – are ecological treasures turned tinderboxes when dry.
A single spark can unleash underground infernos that smoulder for weeks, releasing huge amounts of CO², methane and also carbon monoxide.
Fine particulate matter (PM2.5) particles can cause various health problems, including respiratory ailments and cardiovascular complications.
Peat fires don’t roar, they can self-ignite, be caused naturally by lightning or accidentally or unintentionally through lack of control, and also sometimes, deliberately by arson.
However once started, they often creep silently, invisible to the eye, burning beneath the surface like whispered scandal.
Fuelled by centuries of decayed vegetation, they’re almost impossible to extinguish. Water barely penetrates and collapsing ground can swallow fire crews and machines whole.
Worse? Blame is hard to pin down. In South-East Asia, peatlands span plantations, smallholders, villages and forests.
When they burn, it’s less “whodunnit” and more “everyone’s in the blast zone.” Peat doesn’t just burn – it betrays.
The smallholders equation and shifting cultivation
Across the tropics, millions of smallholders work modest plots with little more than a parang and grit.
Fires often start not inside plantations, but in buffer zones, fringes or enclaves managed legally or illegally by these farmers.
Indonesian law (Environmental Law No. 32 of 2009) permits controlled burning on plots under two hectares for traditional land clearing — if done safely with proper firebreaks.
The goal is to balance tradition with environmental safeguards. In practice, though, firebreaks are often inadequate, enforcement is limited, and fires can escape.
Multiply that across millions of smallholder plots, and during drought, it’s a recipe for transboundary haze.
Controlled burning may be legal — but in extreme drought, even a small fire can become a runaway blaze. Nature doesn’t follow legislation.
Yet when smoke drifts into cities, it’s rarely the smallholders who get blamed.
They don’t wear corporate logos. Plantation companies make easier and more visible targets.
Fires linked to estates spark outrage. Fires on small plots? They vanish into the haze — unfilmed, unmentioned and politely ignored. Smallholders aren’t villains but the silence around their role is a major blind spot.
In many remote areas of the tropics, subsistence farmers still practise shifting cultivation — a traditional method where fire is less destruction, more renewal.
With no fertilisers, machines or cash to spare, they rely on ash to restore soil nutrients for crops like padi tunggal.
Fire, for them, is a tool of survival. Compost? Organic fertiliser? These villages are days from roads, let alone supply chains.
Asking them to switch methods without alternatives is like asking someone in a treehouse to install plumbing.
For remote subsistence farmers, burning belukar is often the only affordable way to clear land. Shifting cultivators burn to survive, not to harm — just to grow enough to feed their families. During dry spells, these fires can easily spread. There are no firebreaks or fire trucks — only a barefoot farmer with a tree branch and a prayer.
When fires get out of control, oil palm plantations shouldn’t be blamed by default especially when the source lies elsewhere. Context matters.
When data smokescreens the truth
Satellites are ideal at spotting heat, smoke and red hot-spots. But what they don’t show is intent or context. Did the fire start in a village? Was it a rogue smallholder? A smouldering peatland? A revenge arsonist? The satellite doesn’t say.
It just lights up and leaves the rest to interpretation.
And in today’s competitive media landscape, complexity doesn’t trend. Headlines need neat villains. Plantation companies, with GPS-tagged maps and slow-footed public relations, make easy targets.
Some NGOs and reports wield satellite data like horoscopes — open to creative reading, depending on the agenda.
Data without context is just smoke with no source — and when used carelessly, it clouds the truth more than it clears the air.
Arson, vengeance and opportunism
Not all fires are accidents or acts of nature. Some are deliberate acts of sabotage, land grabs or age-old grudges set alight. In this smoky subplot, fire becomes a weapon — not a tool.
Across oil palm regions, arson is real — though rarely headlined. Trespassers have been known to set fires in concession areas, then return with claims of land rights or compensation.
Things get murkier where plantations surround villages, customary land or enclaves within concessions. Fires may start in these pockets — accidentally or not — but satellites don’t distinguish between kebun and corporate blocks.
From above, it all looks like one burning estate.
Tackling tropical fire risk means wading into a thicket of messy, often politically inconvenient truths. It means: Reforming land laws that have loopholes. Providing rural communities with affordable alternatives to fire-based clearing. Investing in early detection, enforcement and on-the-ground firefighting capacity — not just public relation campaigns. Creating real incentives for fire-and haze-free land management.
And perhaps most sensitive of all: navigating the political minefield of millions of voters who are also smallholders. Ah, this one? Let’s just say it’s not the kind of thing politicians like to fan during campaign season.
Clear the smoke, Non just the skies
Let’s be clear: this isn’t about shifting blame — it’s about acknowledging shared responsibility.
Fires in the tropics aren’t sparked by lone villains; they’re driven by a complex mix of causes. These are systemic issues that require collective, not selective, wise effective solutions.
Plantation companies are far from the cartoon arsonists they’re often made out to be.
In fact, many are well-equipped with trained teams, surveillance tools, and firefighting infrastructure, often going beyond compliance and obligations to protect both their crops and the surrounding communities.
Yet, instead of being recognised as potential partners in fire prevention, they’re too often portrayed as the primary culprits. It’s time to move from blame to collaboration.
Unfortunately, blaming plantations make better headlines. Resulting large fires fanned by strong winds to estates come with drama: red hotspots, drone shots and corporate villains.
But fires from sugarcane, rice fields or a pakcik with a sickle? That probably don’t sell. Criticising smallholders often backfires, drawing sympathy instead.
Unless the authorities rewrite the fire playbook, this hazy theatre will return every dry season, same cast, same script.
Whatever the cause, one thing’s clear: fire and haze help no one. No one wakes up wishing for ash in their lungs or smog in their skyline.
It’s a burning issue — literally. But now it’s time we stopped torching the truth and the plantations along with the trees.
Joseph Tek Choon Yee has over 30 years experience in the plantation industry, with a strong background in oil palm research and development, C-suite leadership and industry advocacy. The views expressed here are the writer’s own
