My Ancestor | OKP Dana Bayang the Great Iban Headhunter & War Leader of Borneo

“The Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang of Saribas is now with me…the dreaded and the brave, as he is termed by the natives. He is small, plain-looking and old, with his left arm disabled, and his body scarred with spear wounds. I do not dislike the look of him, and of all chiefs’ of that river I believe he is the most honest and steers his course straight enough.”

— James Brooke, The White Rajah’s Diary, 1843

When I saw this prompt, I didn’t think twice. My favorite historical figure isn’t from faraway lands or great empires. He is my ancestor, Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang (or Dana Bayang), the legendary Iban war leader of the early 19th century.

Dana Bayang was from Padeh, a longhouse upriver in the Saribas. In addition to his prowess in battle, he was renowned for his ability to guide his people wisely at a period when preserving their way of life from both local and foreign dangers was essential to their survival. His warriors, loyal and fearless, served as the first line of defense. Among them was Sabok Gila Berani, his right-hand man who eventually established our longhouse (village), Stambak Ulu. Stambak Ulu was a strategic sentinel, not just a village. It sat along the river, watching for enemy warships approaching up the Layar. From there, word could be quickly transmitted upriver to alert Dana Bayang in Padeh. Stambak Ulu became a shield, protecting Dana’s people and territory.

Years later, Sabok’s son Mang adopted Dana’s granddaughter, Mindu—my great-great-grandmother—after her father, Aji, Dana’s successor, was defeated by Charles Brooke’s forces in 1858. Aji’s death was a turning point, as the old ways clashed with colonial ambition. Mindu’s mother, Dimah, died soon after, leaving her an orphan.

When I think of Dana Bayang, I think of courage that was not for glory but for the preservation of a way of life, of the land, spirits, and community. His sons and warriors fought to keep their people free, to defend their beliefs, customs, and homeland. Nonetheless, they stood on the edge of change as the White Rajah’s army (colonialism) drove into Sarawak’s heart. The story of Dana and his warriors reminds me of what it means to belong to a people who refused to give up, who carried defiance and hope in equal measure.

You can even catch a glimpse of Dana Bayang in the 2021 Hollywood film Edge of the World, which offers a sneak peek of Brooke’s voyage of discovery to Sarawak in the 1800s.

This reflection ties closely to something I wrote earlier: Inheriting Courage From My Warrior Ancestors. The courage I speak of is not just in legends; it lives in the bloodline, in memory, in the quiet resistance of holding onto who we are.

A Chieftain’s Lament

Between the ritual’s demand and the crown’s decree
my once-steady hands falter in silence.
The nyabur rusts in my palm,
steel thirsting for blood,
now hushed by law.
The earth splits open—
Brooke’s foreign feet press into its cracks.

I hear signs, I dream dreams.
We need fertile grounds.
Blood must avenge blood.
But Brooke tells me to sheath my hunger,
swallow the sun, unlearn the hunt.
He asks me to bow, to bury my blade—
yet the wind whispers of battles still untold.

A fire stirs in the pit of my chest,
a pact with shadows, ancestors long gone.
Can we silence our spirits, break our bond?
Or will the old gods rise in the dust of our revolt?
I smell old skin burning,
the wild call of crows—
but I am chained to the unseen leash of kings
who promise peace with chains.

Note:
Nyabur – curved sword from Borneo, a headhunter’s weapon

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Luther — The First Boy I Ever Loved

It was 1989. I was twelve, shy and dreamy-eyed, in Primary Six. Luther was fourteen and in Form Two. He had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. We met at Christening classes on Wednesday nights. I watched him from across the room, my heart racing. I was torn between wanting him to notice me and wanting to stay hidden.

It was my best friend who, with a cheeky grin, told him my secret. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to sink through the floor. But that night, everything changed. Luther noticed me and paid attention from then on. We exchanged love letters, filled with clumsy, big-hearted words, and met on small dates behind some buildings; nothing grand, not even kisses. We simply held hands and talked.

But by December of ’89, my father’s job took us to a new town, and just like that, our brief, sweet chapter ended. We didn’t keep in touch because we were too young, and maybe we both knew deep down that first loves are only supposed to last a short time.

Now that I think about it, that experience really changed how I think about love and connection. It wasn’t just about the boy or the letters or the stolen glances. It taught me that love, even in its simplest form, is about seeing and being seen. It’s about feeling, in that fleeting moment, that you matter to someone.

It makes me think of The Wonder Years, an American TV show that was on our local channel at the time. Kevin Arnold’s journey through the awkwardness, joy, and heartbreak of growing up felt so much like my own coming of age. His sweet, tentative relationship with Winnie Cooper; their shy glances, their first kiss, the way they kept circling back to each other through the ups and downs. I understood that kind of love, the sweet young love. Luther and I had our own little universe for a while, much like Kevin and Winnie. We taught each other about hope, tenderness, and letting go, just like they did.

Luther

You had eyes that swallowed me whole—
a storm behind glass,
soft enough to fool me.
Your lips never touched me,
but I felt them anyway,
like rain through a roof crack.

We wrote each other down in crooked lines,
gave ourselves to paper,
to the dark between stars.
For a while, you were a fever I didn’t want to break—
a name I kept folding smaller and smaller,
to hide.

Olivia Writes offers printables, templates, and art designed to inspire reflection, healing, and creativity. Visit Olivia’s Atelier, Redbubble, and Teepublic for more.

Favorite Thing About Myself

What’s my favorite thing about myself?

I pause at that question. I seldom contemplate what I like about myself. If I sit quietly with it and really try to answer, I think I’d say this: my quiet perseverance.

I keep going. Even when I’m tired. Even at moments of fear. Even when doubt creeps in and whispers, “I’m not good enough.” I don’t live my life loudly or boldly in the way that the world typically applauds. However, I move steadily. I keep turning up. I never give up. I never stop learning. I’m always evolving. I complete the task even if no one notices. That’s something I’m proud of, though I rarely say it out loud.

I don’t hesitate to admit my struggles, no matter how terrified I am. I’m not scared to admit and address my weaknesses. I don’t behave like they don’t exist or blame others for my flaws. I say, “This part of me is fragile.” I need to care for this aspect of myself. After that, I look for ways to improve and make those parts better. I admit I’m not always right. But I don’t give up on myself either.

I’ve learned that quiet perseverance doesn’t mean never faltering. It involves repeatedly pulling yourself together despite trembling hands. It’s about accepting the difficult situation and stating, “I’m still here, still trying.”

Perhaps that’s my favorite thing about myself. I try even when I’m scared, not that I’m fearless. Regardless of how overwhelming the day feels, I decide to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

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How Do I Want to Retire?

I don’t want more when I retire. I want less, but more depth.

I don’t want a big house or a busy social life. I want peace and solitude. A small, warm place that is mine. Maybe a little house by the sea or in the hills, where the air is soft and the days go by slowly. But that’s just a dream. In real life, my husband and I have already decided to spend our retirement years in my childhood home in a small town. We live, work, and raise our family in a big city right now, but when we retire, we’ll definitely go back to that small town where life is more peaceful and simple.

I see bookshelves full of stories I love and words I’ve written. A corner with a window that lets in soft light where I can write. A place where I can breathe and not feel like I’m running out of time.

I don’t want a garden because I’ve never liked taking care of plants. But I do want trees swaying outside, the smell of rain-soaked earth coming in after a storm, and green all around me.

I’d be happy to keep writing and quietly sharing my words online. No need for applause or noise; I just want to put my voice out there for anyone who needs it. I picture myself still running an online store, but just one. Easy. My own website. No more switching between platforms. No more doing too many things at once.

I want to take it easy when I retire. To wake up without a rush. To sip my tea while the morning unfolds before me. To be at peace with what I’ve done and what I’ve left behind.

That’s all I need.

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Nights Beneath the Mosquito Net

It’s a memory so soft, so far away, it almost feels like I dreamed it. But it was real.

I was ten, maybe eleven. We were back at the longhouse, in our bilik, the apartment that was our family’s space within the longhouse. There were no bedrooms, no separate rooms. Just us, rolling out our mats, hanging mosquito nets, settling down for the night. There was no electricity then, so nights came early. A single oil lamp flickered in the middle of the room, casting shadows that danced along the wooden walls.

And this was when my grandmother would start telling her stories.

She didn’t sit up to tell them. She lay down, just as we did, her voice weaving through the silence. She spoke of people she had known, incidents long past, things that had happened when the world was younger. Her words filled the dark, mingling with the sounds of the jungle outside. We’d listen as sleep slowly pulled us under, her voice becoming part of our dreams.

I don’t remember the details of her stories. Decades have passed. But I remember the feeling. The peace. The comfort. The sense of being anchored to something larger, older, gentler.

Sometimes I wonder if my children will ever have moments like that. Moments where stories are not read from books or screens but spoken softly in the dark, meant only for their ears.

That memory, fragile as it is, is one of my favorites. Because in that moment, I felt safe. I felt home.

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When Passion Feels Like Work

Today I felt as if I were running in place. Not because I’m lost, but because the journey is long.

I’ve recently been devoting a lot of time to my Etsy shop. Learning, doing, testing, improving, failing, and adjusting. And doing it all again. This is not my first venture. I’ve had multiple internet stores on different sites that have generated passive income for years. But Etsy is a completely different beast. A new challenge for growth.

I’ve been building digital shops while raising my children for over a decade. There is no nanny or assistant. Just me, showing up every day, struggling to balance the invisible weight of being a parent and ambition with whatever strength I can muster. My capital is limited. My energy was often stretched thin. Everything is hands-on.

I’m not saying this to complain.

I say this because we need to recognize what it takes to create something from nearly nothing.

People talk a lot about passion but rarely about what happens when passion becomes a career. When inspiration alone is not enough. It demands stamina, fortitude, and faith in the unseen.

This isn’t a glamorous path. But it is mine.

And I am still walking it. Still deciding to show up. Still believe that slow is not the same as stagnant. I’m still discovering that perseverance doesn’t have to be loud. It is often quiet, exhausting, and unchanging.

If you’re there, I see you. And if you aren’t there yet, you will understand one day, when your heart is totally invested in something that also leaves you drained.

This is what it means to care.

This is what it means to keep striving.

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The Only Way I Know Not to Forget

The answer isn’t loud. It doesn’t arrive with flashy ambitions or bold declarations.

It’s silent. Steady. Rooted.

I am passionate about remembering and honoring.

I honor and remember not only to preserve personal memories but also as a way of fending off cultural erasure. It is also a sign of devotion to my ancestors, the land, and everything that made me.

I didn’t grow up in the longhouse as my parents did. I was raised in the urban areas. But culture was never absent from my childhood. When my grandparents were still alive, we’d return to the longhouse for the holidays. It sat peacefully by the river, where the rainforest hold ancient tales and the air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke. Our songs were sung in Iban. Our prayers were whispered into the land and borne by the wind. We spoke to the land as if it were family. Because it was.

At thirteen, I left home for boarding school, relocated to the big city, and then traveled to other countries for work. Over time, English became my dominant language, and I now speak it more fluently than Iban. I’ve raised my children in a world of shopping malls and neon lights, where the only rivers are highways and the jungle exists only in manicured, trimmed parks.

Will they recognize the sound of pantun sung at dusk?

Will they appreciate the taste of kasam ensabi or understand the beauty of our rich poetry and invocation to the deities who live in Panggau Libau, the land above the skies?

I am passionate about preserving these things. Even if it means teaching them clumsily. Even if I feel like a deteriorating bridge attempting to bear the weight of two worlds.

Why? Because culture isn’t something we simply inherit. It’s something we keep alive.

So I write and draw. I create poetry rooted in my heritage for my children and myself.

I do this not because I believe it will change the world.

But it’s the only way I know to avoid forgetting.

So that is my passion.

And that is how I love my people, my identity, my culture.

And that is how I love myself.

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I Don’t Have a Season

We don’t have seasons as in the West. No snowdrifts, golden leaves, cherry blossoms, or pumpkin spice. However, I still have a favorite season.

It arrives gradually and without fanfare.

The sky goes from bright to bruised. The heat intensifies and eventually turns into rain. I can always feel it in my body before it happens, a certain aching and restlessness. The monsoon.

Some people dread it. The damp laundry, flooded drains and floods, and the wet days. But me? I wait for it.

The monsoon season is the one time when I feel like the world slows down enough to breathe. When the rain beats against the zinc roof and the windows fog up, I feel my inner loosening. It allows me to pause.

It reminds me of my kampung days, when we ate durian under the awning as the rain fell sideways. When I would lie on the floor with a book while my sisters listened to the radio.

Now in the city, I’m still waiting for it. I still write or create my best work when the sky is gray. I’m still craving hot Milo and stillness the rain brings. It’s the time of year when I return to the page with less hesitation and my memories seem more vivid.

So, no, I don’t have a favorite season, such as autumn or spring. I have a favourite sky and rain. A season that lives inside me rather than outside.

And when it arrives, I know who I am again.

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Time, a Book, and Me

If I had to choose one luxury that I couldn’t live without, it wouldn’t be pricey or rare. It’s not about expensive bags or luxurious holidays. It isn’t even a spa day, though I would like one. No, the one luxury I cling to with both hands, the one that saves me over and again, is this: a peaceful moment with a book or time alone to create.

Books have been a luxury for me since I was a child. Long before I knew what luxury meant. I would save my pocket money to buy used storybooks from old bookstores, read beneath the blanket with a torchlight, or turn pages while eating Maggi at the dining table. Even decades later, the emotion remains unchanged. I still find solace in books, the way they consume me and transport me away. I still underline lines that cut through the chaos of life and say, “Yes. This.”

Even more rare is the luxury of time. Time dedicated completely to myself. As a mother and a woman with too many responsibilities, time feels like a borrowed commodity. But when I have a moment of silence, when the kids are away at school, the chores can wait, and the world stops knocking, that’s when I return to myself.

I write. I sketch. I look at the sky and let my mind wander. In such moments, I’m remembering and reclaiming. I’m not simply surviving.

So perhaps the true luxury is not just time or books, but a mix of the two: time to read, time to create, and time to rediscover oneself. Not anyone’s mother, wife, or daughter. It’s just me, Olivia, alone with her thoughts and her art.

And that, to me, is the most beautiful thing in the world.

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Becoming Alara

If I had to change my name, I think I would choose Alara.

It’s not that I don’t like my name; Olivia has served me well. It’s soothing, familiar, and if I’m allowed to be honest, it’s gorgeous. I like my name, and I also have a beautiful second name, which is my indigenous Iban name; however, to protect my identity, I won’t disclose it here. But sometimes I imagine slipping into another skin, one free of past associations, like cooling rain falling on virgin land.

Alara.

There is something liquid about it. Like water rushing through stone. It reminds me of rivers, of things that adapt and keep going, carving their way through barriers with patience rather than force. That is the woman I am striving to become. Less harsh edges, more grace in motion.

Alara is said to mean “water fairy” in Turkish legend. I like it for the thought of living near water, gently transporting things from one place to another, rather than for the whimsy of wings and magic. Some people believe it implies the qualities of a guardian, being exalted and joyful. I’ll take all of it. I’ve spent years learning to keep my sanity, to lift myself when things get heavy, and to find joy even in the midst of silent suffering.

Will the name change me? Maybe not. However, it would be a turning point, like a reclaiming or a reminder that I’m allowed to become someone new if I want to. That I may wrap my past stories in silk and place them on a shelf as relics from a life I lived.

Alara would write barefoot, under the trees. She would talk only when she felt moved. She would love without apologizing for how deeply she feels. She would walk away from things that crushed her spirit, no matter how painful it was. She would live, not perform.

But here I am, still Olivia. And that’s perfectly fine too. Maybe I don’t have to change my name to be more like myself.

Still… if I ever did, you’d find Alara somewhere by the shore, writing poetry and stories about the woman she used to be.

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