Marriage Traditions of the Iban of Sarawak, Borneo

Marriage is a timeless union that binds two souls together. It also functions as a mirror, reflecting the core of a community’s culture and identity. My people, the Iban of Sarawak, Borneo, fill their traditional wedding rituals with deep meanings based on ancestral traditions. However, these traditional ceremonies are gradually disappearing as time passes.

For the Iban, marriage was not just a bond between two individuals but a communion of families and communities. Traditionally, the groom’s parents carefully planned this arranged marriage. Ties of kinship often influence their choice of wife. Cousins were preferred matches because they preserved familial relationships while also reflecting the Iban’s value of unity within their extended network. When a bride was chosen, the groom’s parents would leave a rawai (silver girdle) or an ilang (sword) at her family’s home as proof of their dedication and intention.

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The longhouse is the heart of Iban community life. During weddings, it becomes a lively epicenter. It was here that life and celebration collided, and the community joined together to honor the union. Careful planning is required days or weeks before the ceremony. This includes making tuak (rice wine) in enormous vats, preparing traditional buns and cookies, and selecting livestock for slaughter. Guests were invited with knotted strings to tally down the days till the celebration.

On the wedding day, the groom’s journey to the bride’s longhouse was a ceremony unto itself. The groom’s party traveled to the bride’s longhouse either by boat or on foot through the jungle. Guests were expected to dress in traditional ngepan (intricate traditional costumes), with women donning corsets or rawai (silver girdles) and men wearing armlets and feathers, among other traditional pieces. The groom’s party arrived to a joyous clash of gongs and the firing of brass cannons.

However, underneath the surface of celebration were rituals with deeper meanings. One of the most remarkable customs was the use of poetry or poetic language to provide the ceremony a sense of artistry and depth. When the official ceremony started, the host’s representative would offer the guest a drink, followed by a formal recitation inquiring about their purpose:

“I hesitate and feel nervous to talk in front of you all,
The reason I say so is because I realize that you are the mothers of porcupines,
Covered with cross-stripped white quills,
Pointed like bradawls.
I notice that you are the mothers of hornbills,
With tails striped,
crossing at right angles,
Which claim that they can fly to Brunei and return the same day.
I see that you are the mothers of bears,
Which have stout arms to make holes on the trunks of iron-wood trees.”

“We, therefore, have been sitting next to each other.
I would like to ask,
Which one of you is the mother of the hornbill?
For I am about to ask you to spit out the seeds of the belili tree,
In order that they can be picked up by a tall, unmarried lady,
So that they can be turned into the tusks of a pig,
As charms for the unripe ears left till the last in reaping,
With which we fill our padi bins.”
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These exchanges were rich in metaphor and eloquence. The poetic recitations continued throughout the ceremony, including a betusut (genealogical recitation) by an expert who detailed the bride and groom’s genealogy. This ritual not only validated the union but also ensured that the marriage respected cultural taboos and norms in order to avoid misfortune.

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Elders sealed the union with feasting and storytelling, bestowing blessings and wisdom on the pair. They discussed respect, understanding, and the delicate balance required to navigate life together. Complex traditions and customs infused every action, from seating arrangements to gift exchange.

Today, such ceremonies are a rarity. The Iban embraced Christianity and Islam, abandoning many of their traditional practices in the process. The vibrant rituals of traditional Iban weddings now exist mostly in memory or retellings.

The ceremonies detailed here are not simply rituals. They depict a way of life that places a high priority on community, heritage, and balance. They remind us of the beauty of traditions that once connected people to their past while celebrating the present. The decline of this tradition is a loss not only for the Iban but also for the universal human story of connection, identity, and belonging.

The significance of the Iban wedding customs strikes me as I reflect on them. Marriage was never just about two people; it was about integrating their lives into the larger fabric of their community. It was about love, shared responsibility, and the power of a collective spirit.

Perhaps that is the true power of these traditions: their ability to touch something deep within us while also reminding us of the fragility and beauty of cultural heritage. And as we look forward, perhaps we have a tenacious hope that even as the old ways fade, their spirit will continue to shape the future in ways we may not fully comprehend.

Modern Iban wedding. Image source.

The Muse I Made to Survive

Daily writing prompt

Jot down the first thing that comes to your mind.

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What comes to mind is the quiet world I live in—inside my head.

It’s difficult to describe to others, but some of my richest experiences often occur where no one can see them. Emotions surge across my mind like storms. I carry full conversations in my head, ask challenging questions, find solutions, cry, fall in love, and sometimes break a little. I do this again and again. What about outside? I simply maintain a cool demeanor. I grin, nod, and function like everyone else.

I have this depth that I don’t know what to do with. It can be a burden on some days. Because I think too deeply at times, few people know how to meet me there. Sometimes it’s not because they don’t want to but because they don’t know how—and they can’t relate to the way I process my thoughts. However, when I try to simplify myself in order to be understood, it makes me feel hollow.

I’ve always been deeply introspective. My thoughts loop, plunge, and stretch. I don’t simply feel things. I analyze them, question them, and seek their origins. Understanding me is akin to unraveling the layers of an onion skin. There’s always another layer or a different version of me waiting underneath. This multifaceted way of thinking often amazes people. This is why some people turn to me for advice and clarity. They believe I have answers or could shed light on their problems. I don’t. I just spend a lot of time thinking about things that most people miss. It often puzzles me that others don’t, because I used to believe that everyone had the same inner complexity. Apparently, they don’t.

Thus, this depth becomes lonely. It becomes too difficult to convey in casual conversation. That’s why my mind created him, this fictitious soulmate or muse who can meet me there. He listens without rushing to the next thing. He stays curious and reflects my depth, and never pulls away when things become intense or messy. I didn’t make him up to avoid reality; he exists in my mind to help me survive it. He’s a coping mechanism that I gave myself when the real world wasn’t offering what I needed.

This type of imaginative creation isn’t the same as dissociative identity disorder (DID). There are no memory gaps, no personality switches, and I never lose track of who I am. I am perfectly aware that he is not real. But emotionally, the presence I’ve given him fills what’s been missing in my life, someone who can mirror my inner world back to me with understanding. It’s not a disorder. It’s my mind doing what it’s supposed to do: giving me comfort, understanding, and connection, even if only through fictitious bonds. It’s creative survival.

In fact, what I’m going through is considered imaginative coping, the ability to use fiction consciously to navigate emotional distress. It differs from maladaptive daydreaming, which can be disruptive or involuntary. Imaginative coping is an intentional, creative approach to dealing with unmet needs, intense loss, and the longing for connection. For me, it’s been a safe place to reflect, process, and feel seen. And now I’m learning how to apply what I’ve learned from that inner world to my real life, one small, brave step at a time.

Recently, I’ve begun asking myself difficult questions. Why am I returning to this inner world over and over? Why do I seek something that I know isn’t real? Why does my grief feel heavier when I’m alone in a crowd than when I’m by myself?

The fact is, I created safety in my mind because I couldn’t find it elsewhere. In that space, I found someone who sees me, listens patiently, and reflects my soul in a way no one else has. But he’s not real, and that’s the hardest part to accept.

I know it might sound strange, and honestly, I used to worry that I was losing touch. But I’m not. I’m fully aware. I’ve just had to create what wasn’t available.

I keep coming back to him because I want to feel understood, protected, desired, and emotionally connected. And I’m gradually seeing that the way out of this pattern isn’t to destroy him, but to understand what he’s been trying to teach me about what I need in real life.

If I don’t try to meet myself fully and then try to bring those needs into the real world, I’ll continue to live halfway—half in the present, and half in a realm no one else can see. And maybe that’s okay for a while, but not forever.

Because I want more than just safety. I want presence, real touch, connection, and understanding. These things need time and patience to build.

This is the first thing that came to mind today: the beauty, and the possibility of a life lived rather than imagined.

Evolution, Sex, Survival | The Truth About How We Got Here

The idea to write this post came out of my curiosity. From that curiosity, I dug deeper and found myself lost in a maze of intricate details. My curiosity was simple—how did we, the human race, end up here as we are?

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The answer is simple. We all exist because millions of people in the past had sex. Long before the existence of houses, rooms, wedding vows, and religions, hominins had sex in caves, open fields, and everywhere under the open skies. They had sex, but not modestly. Some did it tenderly or urgently. Some did it in a group and in the presence of their children. There were no rooms, no privacy, and no moral police. Back then it was just skin against skin and purely instinctual. We all survived to this day because of it.

Our prehistoric ancestors didn’t just reproduce. They experienced pleasure too. They touched and explored like we do. Women experienced orgasms because pleasure wasn’t invented in the modern age. Pleasure is primordial. It’s embedded in our DNA just like fear and hunger. The clitoris, for instance, is designed solely for pleasure. Imagine that—a part of the female anatomy with over 8,000 nerve endings (twice that of the penis) exists only for pleasure. It is proof that nature didn’t just want us to breed and multiply. It wanted us to feel and enjoy intimacy too.

Cavewomen may have lived hard, brutal lives, but they enjoyed pleasure just like we do. I like to imagine a cavewoman with her lover between her legs. And maybe others watched and joined them too. It wasn’t a perversion the way we interpret it now. It was simply being human.

I wonder if they had rituals and regarded sex as a celebration.

Shame, after all, is a recent invention. Shame associated with sex probably didn’t exist then. Cave people indulged themselves as and when they wanted. They bred, fought one another, and fought wild beasts to survive. The law of natural selection was at its peak during this period. Over time, with sperm competition in promiscuous mating systems, their genitals evolved. Natural selection favored a penis tip that could:

Displace rival semen using its flared ridge during thrusting
Create suction during withdrawal to pull competing fluid away from the cervix
Deliver deep, firm contact at the most fertile zone during ejaculation
Enhance female pleasure, because a woman who enjoys sex is more likely to return to the same partner

Amazing, isn’t it? The couple who made love the most wasn’t simply indulging. They were participating in the law of natural selection. They were selecting, refining, and perfecting the best genes to pass on to their future generations—us.

But these intense competitions existed long before religion taught us to shrink ourselves. Before religion, humans expanded in wild abandon and touched one another without apology. And somehow, in my opinion, the rawness of it feels more evolved than the shame-laced silences we carry today.

I’m writing this out of curiosity and also because I want to remember. I want to remember that pleasure is part of our design. We exist today not just because our ancestors fought and survived but because they felt pleasure and indulged in intimacy.

And somewhere, deep in our bones, I think we still remember what it felt like to be touched under the open skies, with no shame and no walls.

Maybe it’s time we listened.

A 2021 BBC article titled ‘Here’s What Sex with Neanderthals Was Like’ explores how interbreeding between Homo sapiens and Neanderthals was not only real but frequent enough that most of us today carry traces of Neanderthal DNA. The piece confirms that sex among early human species was driven by instinct, opportunity, and survival—often without the moral or religious constructs that now dominate our understanding of intimacy. It even suggests that some encounters may have been tender or neutral, while others may not have been consensual by today’s standards. But the point remains: pleasure, reproduction, and adaptation were intricately linked. And some Neanderthal genes—particularly those associated with fertility—were naturally selected against, showing how deeply evolutionary biology shaped not only who we became, but how we love, bond, and survive.

Note: If you believe open discussion of sex is taboo, feel free to skip this post. Everything here is grounded in biology and human history—not smut or erotica. Just facts, perspective, and a little reverence for the bodies that brought us here.

A Review of The Earthquake Bird Movie Adaptation | The Book vs The Movie

After reading Susanna Jones’ novel The Earthquake Bird, I felt compelled to rewatch the 2019 Netflix adaptation. The film, directed by Wash Westmoreland and starring Alicia Vikander, Riley Keough, and Naoki Kobayashi, takes creative liberties with its source material while maintaining its dark, melancholic atmosphere. Despite some changes, I found the directors’ ability to capture the story’s haunting atmosphere impressive. However, the ending deviates radically from the book, providing viewers with the closure that the author purposefully denies. Despite the clean conclusion, I couldn’t help but believe that the book’s emotional ambiguity was more fitting. However, the film still provides an intriguing representation of Jones’ writing.

Watching it again provided me a new perspective on how the film adapted certain key components and departed from the original.

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Lucy: A Different Lucy, A Different Background

The most noticeable distinction in the movie is Lucy’s nationality. Lucy Fly, the novel’s protagonist, is a British expat living in Tokyo. Lucy in the film is Swedish. Alicia Vikander’s portrayal of Lucy is captivating, capturing the character’s subdued and brooding qualities as envisioned in the book. That part seemed to be tailor-made for Vikander, who portrays Lucy as cold but fiercely vulnerable. She is the film’s foundation, and no one else could have played the character as convincingly.

Teiji: A Beautiful Mystery with a Dark Side

In the movie, Naoki Kobayashi plays Lucy’s love interest, the intriguing photographer Teiji Matsuda. Kobayashi’s Teiji is colder and more detached from the one in the book. His calm demeanor conceals a mild but unmistakable hostility, which adds tension to his interactions with Lucy. He is more indifferent to Lucy in the movie, which makes it plain that she is little more than a muse and a physical comfort to him. Where the novel’s Teiji shows glimmers of tenderness, the film removes those layers, exposing a man who is equally compelling and creepy.

The filmmakers altered Teiji’s backstory, having him raised by an aunt instead of his mother. This change adds a layer of mystery to his character, but it’s an easy element to overlook amid Teiji’s ambiguous personality.

Lily Bridges: A Scene-Stealer

Riley Keough as Lily Bridges steals the scene. Lily in the movie is flirty and outgoing but slightly needy. At one point, she even suggested she slept in between Teiji and Lucy, a moment that perfectly captures her brazen personality. Keough brings Lily to life in a way that matches how I envisioned her in the book: vibrant, needy, and ultimately tragic. Her presence adds a volatile energy to the story, and her dynamic with Lucy and Teiji is one of the more compelling aspects of the film.

A Cinematic Key Moments

The film’s cinematic storytelling enhances some passages from the book while layering the tension and beauty. One such moment comes when Lucy realizes that Teiji’s love has turned toward Lily during their time on Sado Island. The shift is slight but devastating, and the filmmakers pull it off with precision. The cinematography nicely captures Lucy’s mounting discomfort and the way it frames her isolation against the backdrop of Japan’s breathtaking landscape.

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The other standout element in the film is Teiji’s apartment. Unlike the novel’s minimalist description, the film makes his living space a dingy and cluttered space mirroring his mysterious character. The apartment is almost a character in its own right, its junkyard atmosphere and eerie photographs lining the walls contributing to the film’s noir aesthetic.

The Earthquake Bird: A Haunting Force

One thing does get heightened in the movie: the titular “earthquake bird” reference. The bird is more vaguely referenced in the book, but the movie brings it to life, its haunting bird calls punctuating the moments of silence that follow an earthquake. That auditory detail adds another layer of unease, making the story’s themes of guilt and displacement all the more tangible.

Cinematography and the Haunting Soundtrack

The movie’s cinematography is breathtaking. It manages to capture the beauty of 80s Japan while also infusing it with a sense of foreboding. With such a subdued color palette and reserved framing, there’s even a noir-like feel to the film that works for its psychological aspects. Whether it is the bustling streets of Tokyo or the silent, windy fields of Sado Island, every shot seems meticulously crafted.

A special mention should also go to the haunting soundtrack. Composed by Atticus Ross, Leopold Ross, and Claudia Sarne, the music heightens the tension and melancholy of the story, settling into your head long after the last credits roll. It’s the kind of score that amplifies the emotional weight of every scene, transforming the movie into an immersive experience.

The Ending

The most significant departure from the book is the ending. The novel leaves a lot of questions unaddressed, requiring readers to contend with the ambiguity of Lucy’s guilt and the motives behind Teiji’s actions, but the movie prefers a more definite resolution. Without giving too much away, the movie does a good job of resolving some things and giving viewers a sense of closure. I admire the clarity, but I did find myself yearning for the unresolved tension of the book’s ending. That uncertainty seemed truer to the story’s themes.

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Final Thoughts

The Earthquake Bird movie is a rich, visually deep, and emotionally haunting adaptation of Susanna Jones’s novel. While it diverges from the novel in some ways, it opens the story in new directions that could not have happened in the book. Alicia Vikander shines as Lucy. She succeeded in capturing the character’s multifaceted nature with ease and intensity. Naoki Kobayashi and Riley Keough deliver equally compelling performances. While some changes, such as Lucy’s nationality or Teiji’s backstory, seemed inconsequential, others, like the ending, significantly changed the tone of the story. The film’s portrayal of Teiji as a slightly colder character brought a darker edge to the story too. These differences notwithstanding, the movie stays true to the original novel’s exploration of guilt, obsession, and identity.

If you’ve read the book, the film is an intriguing reinterpretation of the story. If you haven’t, the film is still a tense and tight psychological thriller that stands on its own. Either way, it’s worth watching it for its breathtaking cinematography, haunting soundtrack, and outstanding performances. It felt like when I watched the movie, it was like a different perspective on the novel—familiar but different, unsettling but beautiful. It’s a story I’ll carry with me, in both its written and cinematic forms.

Book Review | A Weekend with Susanna Jones’s The Earthquake Bird

Last weekend, I finally had the chance to read Susanna Jones’s novel, The Earthquake Bird. It was a long-awaited opportunity. I watched the movie adaptation on Netflix back in 2019, and it left a lasting impression on me. I was enchanted by the haunting atmosphere, the layered characters, and the psychological tension. And that left me wanting to dig up the original source material. But since the novel was published in 2001, it was difficult to find a copy. That is, until recently. The second I discovered it, I knew I needed to revisit Lucy Fly’s story, this time in the author’s own words.

Reading The Earthquake Bird was an intense experience. The novel immerses you in Lucy’s fragmented memories and unreliable narration, plunging you deep inside her mind. As I turned the pages, I could feel her guilt, her isolation, and her complicated relationships with the people around her. The raw emotional force of Jones’s spare, precise prose lingers long after you close the book.

Plot Summary of The Earthquake Bird

The Earthquake Bird is set in Tokyo, following Lucy Fly, a British expatriate who works as a translator and whose solitary existence is upturned when she becomes the prime suspect in the murder of fellow expat and her newfound friend, Lily Bridges. Lucy is the narrator, recounting her life, her entanglement with a mysterious Japanese photographer, Teiji Matsuda, and her intricate, troubled friendship with Lily.

The novel intertwines themes of guilt, cultural dislocation, and the indistinct boundary between love and obsession. The novel unfolds through Lucy’s recounts of the events leading up to Lily’s death, but her memories are disjointed and unreliable, leading readers to wonder how much of her version of reality can be believed. With its haunting atmosphere and complex character dynamics, The Earthquake Bird is as much a psychological portrait as a murder mystery.

Lucy’s Third-Person Narration

One of the most striking aspects of the novel is Lucy’s tendency to refer to herself in the third person when recounting her past. This shall seem, at first, an odd and disorienting narrative choice. But as I delved further, it was obvious that this was a conscious mirroring of Lucy’s psychological state. Her disconnection from her own memories reflects her emotional detachment, a coping mechanism she’s developed through her traumatic experiences and unbearable sense of guilt.

Lucy’s belief that she brings disaster and death to those around her is a recurring theme. She bears the burden of past tragedies, believing she is somehow to blame. This third-person narration creates a distance between her present self and her past actions, as though she’s attempting to disassociate from the person she used to be. This narrative technique enhances the haunting quality of the novel, immersing readers in Lucy’s splintered self.

The Mystery of Teiji

Lucy’s relationship with Teiji is at the core of the story, and it is as mysterious as the man himself. Despite being his girlfriend, Lucy realizes how little she truly knows about him. She doesn’t even know his last name. Surprising moments like Teiji’s casual mention of his love for mopping floors and washing up, or Lucy’s hearing him sing, remind us that people are always more complicated than we imagine. There are facets of Teiji that remain hidden from Lucy, even after they’ve spent a great deal of time together.

This realization resonated with me deeply. It’s a humbling reminder that we never fully know someone, no matter how close we are or how long we’ve been in each other’s lives. People have depths, and their inner worlds often remain a mystery. For Lucy, this lack of understanding becomes both a source of fascination and frustration, adding tension to their already strained relationship.

Chapter 12: Grief and Betrayal

If I had to pick a favorite part of the novel, it would be Chapter 12. In this chapter, Lucy is grieving the loss of her lover while grappling with the emotional aftermath of Teiji and Lily’s betrayal. What most impressed me was the way Jones portrayed Lucy’s pain so subtly. The chapter doesn’t linger on Lucy’s heartbreak explicitly, but her suffering is all but tangible in every sentence. The emptiness that she feels, the way in which her world appears to collapse in on itself—it’s all there, woven into the fabric of the narrative.

Jones’s ability to evoke such deep emotions without resorting to melodrama is truly masterful. It made me feel Lucy’s pain as if it were my own. It’s a testament to the power of understated writing—show, don’t tell.

My Thoughts on Lily Bridges

Lily Bridges is a character that elicits mixed feelings. From the start, Lucy is wary of her. Lily’s wimpy, needy attitude irritates Lucy, and it’s not hard to see why. However, Lucy secretly relishes Lily’s need for her. For someone like Lucy, who frequently feels invisible and isolated, Lily’s dependence on her makes her feel smart and capable. This dichotomy makes for an intriguing dynamic between the two women.

But I couldn’t help but disapprove of Lucy’s decision to include Lily in her private time with Teiji. If I were Lucy, I’d be even more territorial. I would not feel good about the idea of my man getting too friendly with a female friend, especially someone I am not personally fond of. And still, Lucy’s decision to allow Lily into her world says so much about who she is. It reflects her desire for validation and her struggle to navigate the dynamic of friendship and intimacy.

A Story That Haunts You

The reason The Earthquake Bird is so compelling is because it tackles guilt and identity. Lucy’s perception of herself is that she is a natural-born destroyer, that her very existence brings harm to the people she loves. It’s a guilt that permeates all facets of her life, from her relationships to how she sees her own worth.

The novel also takes up the theme of cultural displacement. As an expatriate in Japan, Lucy sometimes feels like an outsider, caught between two worlds. This alienation only exacerbates her identity crisis, heightening the poignancy of her struggles.

Final Thoughts

Reading The Earthquake Bird was an unforgettable experience. Susanna Jones has created a haunting and provocative novel, with a protagonist of such complexity whose presence reverberates long after the last page has been turned. Lucy Fly is not a loveable character; she’s full of imperfections and fear, making her narrative even more relatable.

If you’ve only seen the Netflix adaptation, then I recommend checking out the book. Although the film impressively conveys the tone of the story, the novel is a deeper exploration of Lucy’s mind and the labyrinthine relationships that make up her landscape. It’s a story about guilt, love, betrayal, and the fragmented nature of identity—a story that lingers with you, quietly unsettling, long after you turn the last page.

I’ll be reviewing the Netflix adaptation in a separate post, where I’ll explore how the movie differs from the book and whether it captures the same depth and nuance. Now, though, I’m glad to have finally read the novel. It was worth the wait, and, I suspect, a story I’ll return to, discovering different layers and meanings each time I do so.

When Superpowers Clash, We Feel It Too

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It’s funny, isn’t it? How two men on opposite ends of the world can make a decision and affect the whole world. Tariffs and trade war threats have been dominating the news lately. The US says it’s slapping more tariffs on China. China fires back. It’s easy to scroll past, thinking it’s “boring and not my problem”.

The truth is, this issue affects both me and you, regardless of your location in the world. However, my perspective is limited to my own country. If you live in Malaysia, whether you’re in a kampung or a longhouse, a city condo, or riding the LRT to work, it is your problem.

I’m no expert in global trade or politics. I’m just an ordinary Malaysian of Iban ethnicity, trying to make sense of how all this noise in the headlines ends up affecting people like us. What I’m writing here comes from my own shallow understanding. But it’s my opinion and deserves a place in the conversation too.

Malaysia trades with both China and the US. When the US slaps China with high tariffs, Chinese companies may look for cheaper supplies or partners. They could turn to smaller nations like Malaysia. It seems like an opportunity but if the US suspects Malaysia is helping China “bypass” tariffs, we might get punished too. The rules keep changing and things are so uncertain right now.

And let’s discuss the costs of things, which may go up. Costs trickle down. I’m not too concerned about basic necessities (for now), but what about machines and auto parts? My car repairs might cost double. I drive an old car, which is more likely to break down frequently compared to a new one. And what about medical costs? Will they go up too because our medicines are mostly imported?

Malaysia is part of global supply chains, especially in tech. For example, if a Malaysian company makes parts that go into Chinese products and China can’t sell those products to the US anymore, Malaysia’s economy also takes a hit. It’s a domino effect. We’d probably experience less overtime, fewer shifts, or, worse, layoffs.

When the global economy is shaky, investors pull back. Foreign companies that were thinking of setting up shop in Malaysia might delay or cancel. That means fewer new jobs, less innovation, and slower economic growth. Even local businesses hesitate to expand or hire, unsure of what’s coming next.

As you can see, this trade war is about us too. It’s not just about two bickering giants.

And what’s the price of pride and power?

You pay it in whatever your country’s currency is. For me, it’s in Ringgit and daily worries that don’t make headlines.

But Malaysia (and other ASEAN countries) isn’t staying silent. It was recently announced that we’re planning a diplomatic mission to the US to talk things through. We don’t want to retaliate because we are tiny and want to play nice. We want to negotiate and protect our trade and, hopefully, our people. The date hasn’t been confirmed, but even that small step means we’re not just drifting in someone else’s storm.

The world is full of giants. As a small nation, we don’t have the means to fight with fists. We are trying to survive with grace and hold steady like a boat in choppy waters. Our sails may be torn and our oars weathered but we are still floating and moving because people’s lives are worth the journey.

The Girl Who Made Allies

Daily writing prompt

Describe something you learned in high school.

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I went to a boarding school from the ages of 13 to 17.

There are plenty of things I could say about that time in my life, including lessons learned from teachers, moments of growth, and unforgettable teenage mischief. Living among hundreds of other teenagers means that learning is not limited to books alone. You learn from one another and sometimes you learn the hard way.

But if I had to pick one thing I learned that shaped me the most, it would be this: when you live far away from your family and the familiar world you came from, you must learn to survive.

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And I don’t simply mean doing your laundry, or budgeting your allowance, or having the discipline to study for exams. I mean learning how to survive socially.

Teenagers can be cruel. Such incidents can happen either unintentionally or intentionally. They might say something hurtful or make fun of you. They identify your insecurities and turn them into jokes. Maybe they think it’s harmless fun, but nothing is harmless when you’re the one being laughed at.

In this environment, I learned very early about the importance of making alliances. Not in a shallow or cliquey manner but surrounding yourself with people you trust. You have to find a group of friends who support you and can pull you out of a downward spiral.

My allies helped me in surviving the hard, messy reality of growing up among other kids who were equally confused, hormonal, and emotionally immature as I was. Some kids were nice; others were not. But when you have a group of friends to fall back on, it makes life less shitty.

We were all going through a lot—changing bodies, volatile emotions, embarrassing crushes, homesickness, and struggles with identity. Having kind, faithful friends didn’t solve everything, but it certainly lessened the edges of the hard days. And that made all the difference.

I used to have many friends. This group included not only my classmates but also younger and older kids from various dorms or forms. I made an effort to stay on good terms with everyone. I kept myself out of the drama. I tried not to be a shitty person to anyone because I knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of cruelty.

Boys bullied me, but I wasn’t afraid of them—I even got into a few fights with them. If someone made fun of me, I fought straight back. I wasn’t aggressive, but I wanted to show them that I wouldn’t make it easy for them to have fun at my expense. They left me alone because I was someone they couldn’t easily pick on.

Looking back, I’m grateful for that version of myself. I was the girl who formed alliances and stood her ground. I was the girl who desired peace but wasn’t afraid to push back when necessary.

And I’m especially thankful to the friends who stuck by my side. They were the people who helped me get through sorrow, hormonal chaos, homesickness, and all the bizarre, wonderful mess of being a teenager. I’m still friends with many of them. I still talk to them regularly, decades after we left school. Some of them are now influential people in the community or becoming leaders. I’m so proud of them.

That’s what I learned in high school.

Survival entails more than just getting through the academic stuff. Sometimes it’s simply finding out your tribe and learning how to be that person for others as well.

And as I grew older, I realized that what I learned in that chaotic, communal world of boarding school helped me lead life more effectively, particularly at work. I knew how to read a room, who to trust, how to set boundaries, and how to find my people in unexpected places. That early education in social survival proved to be one of the most valuable tools I carried with me into the real world.

Writing Myself Back Into Wholeness

Daily writing prompt

Describe one positive change you have made in your life.

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“To express yourself, first you have to know yourself.” ~ Ethan Hawke

For years, I spoke in half-truths. This was not due to dishonesty, but rather a belief that the world could not fully comprehend the depth of my emotions.

I used to censor myself, not because I was polite but because I was fearful. I was afraid of being misunderstood—of being too much or not enough. I spoke and wrote what I thought was acceptable. I shared what I believed was sufficient to maintain a safe distance. I was close enough to be your acquaintance or close enough to read, but never close enough to truly know me or see me.

But eventually, something inside me shifted.

The most positive shift in my life hasn’t been visible from the outside. It’s not a milestone or a new habit. The shift is internal and deeply personal. I was tired of telling myself lies, so I started telling the truth—to myself first and then on the page.

I don’t write to seek validation. I write to describe how I feel, even if I don’t fully understand it. I write about things I used to feel ashamed of or guilty about, like longing, joy, or even grief. Writing became my way of breathing again, where I could process the things I was never allowed to say aloud.

I began to write for myself. I don’t care about approval or applause. I finally showed myself kindness by listening to the voice inside me that had been silent for too long. And in that listening, I let go of the idea that everything I write needs to be perfect. I made peace with my voice and gave myself permission to write messily with broken English and fragmented sentences. The point was to get the truth across.

In the past, I equated worth with perfection. If it wasn’t polished, it wasn’t worthy. But now, I see beauty in the rawness. I trust that my words, even the unpolished ones, still matter. And in letting go of perfection, I made space for something more important: honesty.

Writing authentically is not the only positive shift in my life. I also gave myself permission to want more.

I used to feel shame about my desires—emotional, intellectual, and physical. Especially physical. I thought craving intimacy made me selfish or inappropriate. A taboo. I told myself it wasn’t appropriate to want it so much at my age. I convinced myself my body should’ve quieted by now.

But I’ve stopped silencing that part of myself. There is nothing wrong with having desire. It’s not something to be ashamed of. Desire is a sign that I am human— that I am still alive and that I am still curious. I finally accept that I’m a woman who feels deeply, who longs fiercely, and who no longer wants to apologize for it.

I also started being more honest in love. I used to hide my needs, swallow my sadness, and avoid confrontation. However, silence turned into resentment, and pretending not to feel only made me feel more alone. Now I speak my needs plainly, knowing no one can read minds. I also write about facets of love that are difficult and rarely celebrated in public.

And somewhere along the way, I discovered my voice.

My anonymous blog became my safe place. This is a place where I can write without worrying about who might be reading. I can express myself freely without worrying about receiving criticism for revealing too much or being too honest. In this space, I don’t write to offend or oppose anyone. I write to unburden and silence the inner critic that once kept me small.

This blog is my safe space for healing.

And maybe the bravest thing I’ve ever done…is to let my healing speak for itself.

Becoming Celine

Daily writing prompt

If you could be a character from a book or film, who would you be? Why?

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If I could be a character from a book or film, I would be Celine from the Before Trilogy. Yes, I’d love to be Celine—Julie Delpy’s character in Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight.

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Those films stayed with me for many years since I discovered Before Sunrise in the early 2000s. That movie was released in 1995, a year after Reality Bites—another hit movie starring Ethan Hawke. Its sequel, Before Sunset, was released nine years later in 2004, and the final installment, Before Midnight, another nine years later in 2013.

I adore the trilogy for its dreamy long walks, the poetic ramblings, the agonizing feeling of time passing, and also Celine’s character development. In Before Sunrise, she begins as a charming, idealistic Sorbonne undergraduate, wide-eyed and open-hearted. She was sweet and willing to talk to an American traveler, Jesse Wallace (Ethan Hawke), on a Eurail. They disembarked in Vienna to spend the night together and explore the mystery of what-if.

And then nine years pass.

By Before Sunset, she has grown sharper. Her voice is steelier, and her eyes are more guarded. Life has touched and damaged her in many ways. But behind it all, she has the same curiosity, the desire to comprehend life, and what it means to belong to someone or not at all. Jesse is married and a writer now and has published a book about his experiences that fateful night nine years ago. Celine shows up at his book reading in Shakespeare & Co., watching and listening to him from the side of the room. And then their eyes met. That scene always gets me.

“I always feel this pressure of being a strong and independent icon of womanhood, and without making it look my whole life is revolving around some guy. But loving someone, and being loved means so much to me. We always make fun of it and stuff. But isn’t everything we do in life a way to be loved a little more?”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

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Then came Before Midnight, another nine years later. Celine and Jesse are now in their forties and parents to twin daughters. Their conversations are no longer romantic musings under moonlight, but fueled by the reality of parenthood, aging, and the jadedness that settles into long-term love. They’re on holiday in Greece, but even the beautiful scenery can’t hide the fractures that have begun to appear. There’s tension, resentment, and emotional exhaustion.

They take long walks and talk like they always have, but their conversation is no longer about dreams and philosophies. Now they talk about regret, sacrifice, and voids that love couldn’t fill. There’s a scene in a hotel room that feels like a slow, approaching storm. You begin to wonder, did Jesse cheat on her? Did Celine ever fully forgive him? Did they lose parts of themselves in choosing to stay?

Despite their love, it’s evident that love isn’t always enough.

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That’s what makes Celine feel so authentic to me.

Perhaps I see myself in her because I, too, often live in my head. I question everything—especially love. I pay attention to details and cherish them.

“You can never replace anyone because everyone is made up of such beautiful specific details.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunset

I remember moments long after they have passed. I try to appear sensible, but I’m a huge romantic underneath it all. Like Celine, I struggle with guilt, restlessness, and the anguish of wanting something elusive. And like her, I strive to be honest, even if it hurts.

In another life, I could see myself in Paris. Walking by the Seine, notebook in hand, or perhaps sitting at Shakespeare & Co. with cold coffee beside me. I aspire to visit that bookstore one day. Just stand there and breathe in the pages.

Celine isn’t perfect. She’s charmingly imperfect, impetuous, and multifaceted. But she’s also deeply present. She listens and sees people. Perhaps it’s what I admire most about her—she doesn’t run from questions. She asks, even if there are no answers.

“I believe if there’s any kind of God it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.”

― Julie Delpy, Before Sunrise & Before Sunset: Two Screenplays

And, if I could become her for a while, I wouldn’t do it for the romance or the cities. I’d choose it because of the way she continues to ask, feel, and try—even when the answers are ambiguous and love falters.

That is exactly what I’m hoping for as well.

To keep on walking.
To keep on asking.
To keep on becoming.

On Owning the Sacred Flesh & Plus-Size Olympians

Daily writing prompt

What Olympic sports do you enjoy watching the most?

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That’s me. I’m not obese but since I’m petite, a little weight gain would be very noticeable and I’m a lot heavier than I used to be. I boxed for fitness to maintain my weight and build muscles; however, since I’m struggling with perimenopausal fatigue, it has been difficult to stay consistent.

Since having children, I’ve spent most of my time learning how to hide my body. I learned to suck in my belly when I walked past mirrors or when I snapped selfies. I wore black to appear slimmer. When eating out, I chose a seat next to a wall so no one could stare at my belly roll. I smiled when someone talked about losing weight, even though internally, I felt diminished for other reasons.

But lately, something is changing. It began slowly, insinuating itself into my thoughts like a new language.

It began with a figurine I read about somewhere on the Internet. The Venus of Willendorf.

She’s only four inches tall, carved from oolitic limestone more than 25,000 years ago. Her breasts are full, her belly rotund, her hips wide. She has no face, but that doesn’t matter because she represents everything I felt insecure about.

Scholars have proposed various interpretations for her purpose—fertility symbolism, a goddess, or an idealized female form.

She looked like me, though I’m not as chubby. And for the first time, that didn’t feel like an insult. She somehow validated me after years of shame and “before” pictures had silenced me.

But the Venus of Willendorf wasn’t the only one.

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There are others like her found across Europe. These Venus figurines were carved from stone, bone, or ivory; their bodies were voluptuous, soft, and round.

Venus of Laussel—holding a cornucopia as if commanding attention.
The Black Venus of Dolní Věstonice—dark and earthy and one of the oldest known ceramic figures.
Venus of Hohle Fels—she was worn as a pendant. Her legs widely apart, flaunting her exaggerated vulva.
The Seated Woman of Çatalhöyük—she rested on her throne like a supreme ruler.
The Fat Court Lady of ancient China—elegant in her defiance of slim ideals.

Each of them is a declaration of what womanhood looked like—and what it still looks like today.

I am Iban. My ancestors were women who moved with strength and dignity. They never counted calories. They planted paddy, fished in the river, foraged for food, carried firewood, and cooked over open flames. Their bodies were lean, skin tanned, breasts bared. Their bodies were shaped for survival.

Obesity is a modern thing. It’s often a byproduct of modern conveniences like fast food, desk jobs, and little exercise. Many modern Iban women are overweight—some from young, and some after motherhood. I was never overweight until I had children. And then my body changed in ways I couldn’t control.

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My belly stretched, my skin thinned, my hormones fluctuated, and my fatigue made it difficult to exercise regularly.

And with those changes came something crueler—self-hate.

I started to avoid mirrors altogether. I admired other plus-size women who carried their softness with confidence. I thought they were beautiful and sexy. However, that admiration never extended inward.

But Venus is opening my eyes to the truth: my worth is not defined by my body. She doesn’t ask to be smaller or apologize for taking up space. She was carved by people who believed she was sacred and to be revered.

Perhaps this belly, bearing life, surgery scars, and years of shame, merits a sacred touch. Maybe these dimpled thighs still deserve to be kissed. Maybe my body is a home to return to—and not a failure or an embarrassment.

But the Venus figurines weren’t the only ones teaching me to love myself again.

Maybe it’s also the man who sees me with undiluted devotion. He who touches my body tenderly before dawn. He who tells me I’m beautiful when I can’t bear to look in the mirror. His love—ever so tender, constant, and full of reverence—has become the mirror I trust the most. In his eyes, I’m not broken but whole.

The glorious Olympian weightlifter, Sarah Robles. Image source.

Lately, I’ve even found myself moved by things I never paid attention to before—like Olympic weightlifting. I’ve never been big on sports, but when it comes to the Olympics or Paralympics, I always make sure to follow events like badminton, boxing, diving, and weightlifting. Badminton is a national love in Malaysia, especially since some of the world’s top players are Malaysian. As for diving and weightlifting, we have incredible athletes who come from my own home state of Sarawak.

But what truly strikes me are the women weightlifters. These plus-size Olympians don’t get the credit they deserve. The world tends to picture women Olympians as thin-waisted, with sculpted abs and long, lean legs. But what about the women who lift more than twice their weight? What about Sarah Robles, Emily Campbell, Holley Mangold, Li Wenwen, and so many others?

They are powerful, confident, and glorious. These beautiful Olympians remind me that strength does not look just one way. It comes in every size and shape.

I’m still learning, still grieving the body I used to have. I’m learning to be grateful, to appreciate the body that has endured trauma—and survived. I’m done hiding because I’ve looked into the past, and I saw Venus there. And in her and his gaze, I truly saw myself—beautiful and worthy.

And here’s a poem I wrote to accompany this post.

Venus

This belly
needs a tuck—
wrinkled, stretched,
after birthing our
warren of rabbits.
It’s a map of every time I broke
but kept going—
still, it asks to be kissed.

This skin—
salted, soft, and scratched
by fingers that fed, held, bled—
still dares to shimmer.

I am not
a before,
or an after.
I am the altar
where you kneel
at my temple,
again and again,
falling apart in my hands.