AT first glance, it looks simple: a neat roll of sticky rice, wrapped in shiny green leaves, tied with slender strands, and steamed until fragrant.
But in Miri, kelupis is never just food. It is a story wrapped in leaves, a tradition that has travelled through time and across generations, carrying the identity of several of Sarawak’s northern ethnic communities.
Today, kelupis is part of the city’s festive tables, market stalls, and even its tourism brochures. But for the Lun Bawang, Bisaya, Kedayan and Bruneian Malay communities who have called northern Sarawak home for centuries, it is something far more personal – a dish that speaks of family, belonging, and the rhythm of rural life.
Shared culinary heritage
Kelupis is believed to have originated in the northern reaches of Borneo, where coastal and inland communities exchanged food traditions long before the arrival of colonial traders.
Across Sarawak, Sabah and Brunei, its presence is constant but its variations are telling.
Among the Lun Bawang and Bisaya of Limbang and Lawas, kelupis is a ceremonial staple, served at weddings, harvest celebrations, and festive seasons. For the Bruneian Malay and Kedayan along Sarawak’s coast and into Brunei, kelupis is inseparable from Hari Raya Aidilfitri and traditional thanksgiving gatherings like Makan Tahun.
Each group makes it slightly differently. Some cook the glutinous rice in coconut milk for a richer taste, others keep it plain and pair it with savoury dishes like rendang or serunding. But the essence is the same: rice rolled in softened nipa or nyirik leaves, tied carefully, then steamed until tender.
Taste of celebration
If there is one time of year when kelupis takes centre stage in Miri, it is during Hari Raya Aidilfitri.
In Kedayan and Bruneian Malay households, it is prepared in huge quantities ahead of open houses. Stacks of kelupis are served to guests alongside curries, meat dishes and an array of colourful kuih.
For the Lun Bawang and Bisaya communities, kelupis also makes appearances at Christmas, weddings, and harvest festivals. In these gatherings, it is often made communally – neighbours and relatives coming together to roll, tie and steam dozens, sometimes hundreds, of pieces. The work is rhythmic, almost meditative, with chatter and laughter carrying through the air.
It is also common to see kelupis crossing cultural boundaries in Miri’s increasingly cosmopolitan food scene.
At Gawai open houses, Chinese New Year visits, or mixed-ethnicity weddings, the rolls find a place alongside pineapple tarts, curry puffs and fruit cakes – a quiet sign of how food in Sarawak bridges differences.
Ritual of making
The process begins the night before. Glutinous rice is washed, soaked and sometimes cooked in coconut milk or pandan-infused water. Meanwhile, nipa or nyirik leaves are washed and softened over gentle heat until pliable.
In the morning, the rice is measured out, rolled tightly in the leaves, and tied with thin pandan strands or strips of the same leaf. Each roll must be firm enough to hold its shape but not so tight that the rice cannot expand during steaming.
As the bundles steam, the aroma fills the kitchen – the sweetness of rice mingling with the earthy scent of the leaves. It is not just cooking; it is a sensory connection to the past, to kitchens where elders once worked with the same patience and care.
Anchor in a changing city
Miri has changed rapidly over the last few decades. What was once a modest oil town is now a growing city, with shopping malls, high-rise apartments, and an increasingly digital way of life.
In such an environment, foods like kelupis become cultural anchors. They remind younger generations of kampung life, of family kitchens where cooking was a shared responsibility, of celebrations that revolved around community rather than convenience.
Making kelupis is a slow process, and that slowness is part of its value. It resists the speed and disposability of modern living, offering instead a ritual that rewards patience and togetherness.
Beyond the kitchen: Preserving kelupis for the future
If Miri wants to keep kelupis as more than just a nostalgic memory, deliberate steps will be needed.
Heritage workshops: Community halls and cultural centres could host workshops led by experienced makers from the Lun Bawang, Bisaya, Kedayan and Bruneian Malay communities, passing the skill to younger generations and visitors alike.
Community branding: A “Kelupis Miri” cooperative could unite home-based producers, providing them with standardised packaging, hygiene certification and marketing support. This could also highlight the kuih’s multi-ethnic roots as a selling point for both local and tourist markets.
Festival promotion: Featuring kelupis prominently in events like Miri City Day, the Miri Country Music Festival, Gawai celebrations and Ramadan bazaars would keep it visible and relevant in the city’s public life.
Why It endures
Kelupis endures because it is more than food. It is a story of people adapting to time without losing themselves. It is a mark of hospitality, a token of celebration, a connection between highland farmers, coastal fishermen, and urban families.
In a city of many cultures, kelupis is a quiet unifier. It doesn’t need to dominate the table – it simply sits there, unassuming but steadfast, offering a bite of something both familiar and profound.
As Miri continues to grow, the challenge will be to ensure that kelupis remains not just a dish for special occasions, but a living tradition, one that future generations will still recognise, make and share.
In the end, every kelupis is a small bundle of memory. It carries the skill of the hands that rolled it, the patience of the family that made it, and the spirit of the community that serves it. Wrapped in leaves, wrapped in history, it is Miri in edible form – a city’s identity in a single, humble roll.
