The Risks I Haven’t Taken Yet

When we talk about risks, people often think of something brave or daring like skydiving, quitting a job to travel, or moving to a new country. Those are great choices, but the kind of risk I think about isn’t loud or exciting. It’s quiet, personal, and deep inside me.

The first risk I want to take is to be honest and tell the truth. Not the polite kind that makes things easier, and not the one that hides behind metaphors to avoid being judged. I want to be honest about how I feel and what I believe, even if it makes people who think they know me uncomfortable.

For a long time, I’ve written about love, faith, culture, motherhood, and identity. Writing has always helped me remember and make sense of things. But I’ve also noticed how often I hold back. I choose my words carefully. I filter and rewrite. I tell my stories in ways that feel safe because I’m afraid of being misunderstood or seen as disrespectful. I was taught to value peace, and I learned early that honesty was not always as safe as obedience. But as I grow older, I realize that silence can also be a form of dishonesty.

I want to talk about how faith changes, how love doesn’t fit into neat boxes, and how I’ve changed as a person after years of trying to please everyone. I no longer want to hide behind my writing. I want my voice to sound like it belongs to someone who has lived, made mistakes, and learned from them. Of course, the risk is that people won’t like what they read. But that’s a risk I’m finally willing to take, because what I write now is not for approval—it’s for truth.

The second risk is more physical. I want to get a tattoo.

It might sound simple, but it means a lot to me. I’ve wanted one for years, but I hesitated because of my religious beliefs. For a long time, I thought it was wrong. I thought my body should remain unmarked. Over time, though, my faith changed. It became simpler, gentler, and more personal. It no longer revolves around rules or fear; it revolves around love and truth. And part of that truth is that I want to mark my body in a way that tells my story.

When I finally get a tattoo, it won’t be something trendy or meaningless. It will be something that ties me to my heritage. I won’t use traditional Iban motifs that were meant for men, because I deeply respect the cultural and spiritual meaning behind those designs. But I’ve thought about creating something inspired by them—perhaps the tali nyawa spiral from the bungai terung, which represents the rope of life, or a design based on the buah engkabang, a forest fruit from Borneo with wing-like shapes that symbolize growth and resilience. Both carry meanings that reflect my life, my culture, and the changes that have shaped me.

I also like the idea of tattooing the coordinates of my parents’ longhouses—one for my father and one for my mother. Two longhouses in two different villages, both by the rivers that have run through my family’s history. It feels like mapping where I come from, a way to connect with the places that made me who I am. It would remind me of my roots and, in a strange way, serve as a promise that I will never lose them.

And to be completely honest, the practical side of it gives me comfort too. If I ever died far from home without identification, the coordinates would at least tell someone where I belong. It sounds morbid, but the thought brings me peace. It feels like a way of saying, “If you find me, bring me home.”

I plan to get the tattoo when I turn fifty. That gives me time to think, refine the design, and make sure it feels right. It will also mark a milestone: fifty years of living, growing, and learning to live on my own terms. The tattoo will not just be art on my skin; it will be a story written in ink, one that connects my body, spirit, and heritage.

These two risks—telling the truth and marking my skin—feel deeply connected. Both are about claiming ownership of who I am. Both are about letting go of the fear of how others might see me. I no longer want to live quietly in the background, trying to make everyone happy. I want to speak with honesty and carry symbols that reflect the life I’ve lived and the ancestors who came before me.

Risk might not always mean danger or being careless. It could be as simple as having the courage to live in a way that is true to who you are. That’s the risk I want to take.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.

What Most People Don’t See

Most people think I’m soft by nature. They think that gentleness is something I was born with. When people read my poems or see my drawings, they often describe them as whimsical, calm, tender, or peaceful. I don’t correct them. It is true in a way, but not the whole truth.

Softness was not something that came naturally to me. It took me years to realize that it can exist with pain. It took even longer to choose it on purpose. I learned it through exhaustion, heartbreak, and slowly putting myself back together after each disappointment. My softness is not passive. It’s a choice I made like a defiance against the hardness that threatened my heart once.

When I was younger, I thought survival meant staying guarded. I thought that being kind would let the world take advantage of me, so I learned to keep my feelings to myself and not talk as much. I became observant and cautious, studying people before deciding if it’s safe to let others in. I had that habit for years without understanding how difficult it was to break.

Art eventually taught me that erecting walls doesn’t always keep you secure. Sometimes it comes from creating something that is honest enough to show who you really are. I find peace when I write, draw, or pair my poems with drawings (“poetry art”). The page doesn’t judge or demand that I do well. It only needs me to be present. That silent conversation between me and the page taught me that being gentle can be strong. It could mend what silence had only kept concealed.

Still, I often feel like I don’t really belong anywhere. I was born into an Iban culture that is rich and layered, but the world I live in now moves quickly and values things differently. I write mostly in English, think partly in Malay, and dream in Iban, a language that doesn’t belong in the world I live in. Every day, I move between these spaces, trying to find balance between them. I can see both the person I used to be and the person I’ve become in these two mirrors, but never both at the same time.

This in-between space is where I create from. It’s where the poems and art begin. I write about rituals, rivers, tattoos, and stories from my ancestors since they are all part of who I am. I draw and write about love and longing because they are a part of the world I live in now. My art is an attempt to bring these two worlds close enough to touch. Even if it’s just for a moment, each poem or drawing is a small way to feel like I belong.

Many people ask me what makes me want to keep creating. The truth is that I create art to feel grounded. Writing helps me return to myself when I start to drift too far from the person I want to be. It reminds me that I still have something to say, even if I don’t say it out loud. Every time I write, I rediscover that softness and strength are not opposites. They are two parts of the same language, which I am still learning to speak fluently.

I’ve learned that belonging doesn’t always mean having a fixed place or community. It could mean accepting that your identity is still changing. Or it could mean carrying your culture and memories in your work, even if those around you don’t always see where they come from. It could also mean finding peace in creating without expecting approval from others.

Most people don’t know these things about me because I rarely share them. But they exist in everything I create. The older I get, the less I feel like I have to explain myself to everyone or to gain approval from anybody. I just need to keep making work that feels honest and can stand as a small reflection of where I’ve been and who I’m becoming.

Softness or gentleness doesn’t mean you don’t feel pain. It is the space that remains vulnerable and courageous despite it. And belonging, for me, will probably always be in that space between the languages I speak, the places I’ve lived, and the stories I continue to tell.

What Rest Looks Like After Fifteen Years of Mothering

It’s been a long time since I’ve had a truly lazy day.

I’m not talking about a day off from chores or deadlines. I’m referring to a day when I let go of everything without feeling pulled in any direction. It’s the day where I don’t feel like I have to be useful or productive or show up for someone else.

Most of my days for the last 15 years have been spent on others. When my kids were younger, especially when they were babies and toddlers, everything was about them. Feeding, bathing, cleaning, holding, and comforting them came first. When they were sick, it meant even less sleep and more work. At that time, I was tired all over, not just my body. It got into my thoughts and emotions as well. Everything was affected by the exhaustion.

There was no such thing as a lazy day back then. It seemed like I had to work for rest. And even when I tried to rest, it cost me something. Waking up from a nap meant a mess. A slower morning meant that I was already behind when I started my day. A moment alone was always interrupted.

At night, when everyone else was asleep, I had the house to myself. Finally, the house was quiet, and I could breathe. I stayed up, though, although I was tired. I wanted a moment when no one needed me so I could be a person again. I found out later that this was called “revenge bedtime procrastination.” It made sense to me. I wasn’t staying up because I had energy, but I stayed up because I didn’t have any other time to be alone.

Back then, I still made time for art. I still wrote in my journal. It was not consistent but enough to keep a small part of myself alive. My creative work never stopped; it just happened in the margins during stolen hours. Or in between picking up the kids from school and doing laundry. I didn’t think of it as something extra but as something I depended on.

Now, with the kids older, I have more “free time” or space. The demands on my time are different. My kids are more self-sufficient, and I can finally enjoy long periods of peace. But I still don’t take lazy days.

Even on weekends when I don’t have any plans or on school holidays when things are slower, I still gravitate toward my work. And by work, I don’t mean a job. I mean things that feed my mind and spirit, like writing, painting, and reading. These things are not obligations. They’re what make me feel most alive.

Some people might think what I do is work. But for me, it’s the opposite of draining because it gives back and keeps me grounded. I don’t create to be productive. It’s in my nature to create.

That’s why the idea of lazy days is strange to me. I don’t resist rest. I just experience it differently. When I spend time writing or making art, I’m not trying to prove anything. This is how I return to myself and how I unwind inwardly while still moving.

If you ask me if lazy days make me feel rested or unproductive, I would say neither. I don’t have lazy days. I have quiet and slow days or days where I work inward, even if nothing shows on the outside.

Rest doesn’t always look like lying on the couch doing nothing. Putting on soft music and painting without a goal in mind is one way to relax. Sometimes it’s writing in a journal in the early morning, before anyone else wakes up. Sometimes it’s reading a book that makes me feel less alone.

To be honest, I don’t think I want a life full of lazy days. I want to live a life where I feel like I’m really there in everything I do. Whether it’s being a parent, creating something, or just being still. Maybe that’s what I’ve been working toward all this time.

Why Malaysians Can’t Debate and What Literature Has to Do with It

I have been thinking about this sentence for days: Literature is vital to the development of civilization. It sounds lofty and almost too academic, but the truth of it becomes painfully clear when you look at what’s going on around us right now. In Malaysia, social media has become a chaotic place where people shout at each other, often without understanding what they are shouting about. The topics change every week, from the Israel-Palestine conflict to alcohol to race to religion, but the pattern stays the same. The loudest voices get the most attention, and the most aggressive ones dominate the space. It doesn’t feel like engaging in conversation and more like moral warfare.

Every time you scroll through Threads or Facebook, you see another argument about who’s right and who’s wrong. There are a lot of insults, accusations, and name-calling in the debates. Malaysian netizens have been calling each other kafir, Yahudi Laknatullah or Zionist sympathizers, pemabuk, tak sedar diri, and poyo just for saying something that doesn’t fit into the dominant narrative. The moral superiority that oozes from these posts is exhausting. Many Malays—though NOT ALL—seem to think that their views are the most righteous and anyone who questions them is automatically condemned. This behavior is so common that it is now seen as virtuous.

Seeing all of this happen has made me deeply weary. There are times when I want to say something, stand up for those who are insulted, and fight against racism and hypocrisy. But I never do. I stop myself every time I want to type a response. I know that trying to reason with people who don’t want to understand is a waste of time. I also know that entering a discussion driven by anger will only drain me. Still, I can’t help but think about why our public discourse is so shallow and why we as a society seem incapable of having difficult conversations without turning them into battles. I think the answer has to do with our relationship with reading and literature.

Literature teaches us how to think, to see beyond ourselves, and how to listen to others even when we disagree. It teaches patience, builds creativity and empathy. Reading widely and deeply helps people learn to see things from multiple perspectives at the same time. They understand subtleties. They acknowledge there are no absolutes in life. In a society that values literature, debates are chances to learn and grow. But in a society that lacks interest in literature, discussions turn into shouting matches. Without the habit of reading, people struggle to form coherent arguments. They react with their feelings, not their brains. Instead of engaging, they attack. They want to be validated, not told the truth.

The lack of reading in Malaysia is not a new issue. We all know the statistics. In 2024, Malaysia ranks 6th among nine Southeast Asian countries in a survey by CEOWORLD magazine, with an average of only 5 books read per year. There are Malaysians who proudly say they haven’t read a book since school. Many bookstores close down, and libraries stay empty. People who do read often stick to light, motivational books that make them feel good without challenging them. Literature that makes us think, makes us uncomfortable, and makes us question ourselves is deemed boring or irrelevant. When we lose the habit of reading such works, we lose something crucial: the ability to think beyond our experience. And when that happens on a large scale, it affects how a nation speaks, argues, and grows.

The decline of reading is not only a cultural issue; it is a civilizational one. A society that stops reading is easy to manipulate. It forgets how to ask questions, or how to separate truth from propaganda, and how to think for itself. That’s when people start using emotional slogans and moral policing to show who’s in power. We can see this now in how some Malaysians use religion and race as weapons to silence others. The line between being morally right and being self-righteous gets blurry. People get hooked on how good it feels to be right. They use religion to protect themselves and their identity to attack others. In that environment, there is no room for contemplation or compassion. The only thing that is left is the sense of supremacy or dominance.

I often think about how literature could change this landscape. One novel or poem can’t solve racism or fanaticism, but it can help. It can make us pause and remind us that every opinion comes from one individual with a story. When we read stories from perspectives different from ours, we are forced to see the world in a wider frame. That is the beginning of understanding. Civilization moves forward not through arguments or viral posts, but through the slow work of broadening our minds.

I have learned how to use my frustration to write. Instead of arguing online, I write essays, poems, and reflections about the things that are important to me, like memory, stories, experiences, identity, culture, and belonging. I write from my Iban perspective because that’s how I see the world. I know that my writing won’t go viral, and I’m okay with that. I do work that may seem trivial to others, but it is important to me. It is my way of preserving a voice that might go unheard in the noise of bickering Malaysia.

Some days I wonder if my work matters. Even though I’ve published some art-related books, exhibited my art a couple of times, been featured in a newspaper and a magazine and two radio interviews—I’m still relatively obscure. I don’t belong to any literary groups. I only have my blogs and a small space on social media. It might not seem like much. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that literature starts right here: in small feats of expression and the bravery to write the truth even when no one is paying attention. Civilization does not develop solely from great orations. It grows from regular people who choose to share their stories, write down their thoughts, and share what they know. My poems and essays may not reach many people right now, but they carry pieces of history, language, and culture that should live on.

Choosing not to argue online doesn’t mean you’re weak. I choose to protect my peace and integrity on purpose. I don’t want to give up insight for outrage. If you have to lose your dignity to win an argument, it’s not worth it. I want to put my energy into something that will last. For me, writing is a way to get that energy back. It lets me deal with the world without getting stuck in its noise. It reminds me that silence, when it comes from being aware, is not the same as being absent. It is a form of strength.

The past week has reminded me that Malaysia is still struggling to mature in its discourse. Racism, feeling morally superior, and needing to control others through shame all show how weak our collective thinking still is. But I also think that change starts with small steps. Anyone who reads with an open mind helps make that change happen. Every writer who doesn’t give up helps society become more thoughtful, even if it takes a long time.

Literature is not entertainment for the elite. It is the basis of empathy and the record of human complexity. It is also the space where we learn to think beyond survival. Without it, civilization loses its soul. We might still have cities, technology, and institutions, but we wouldn’t have the inner structure that allows a society to reflect and grow. That’s what I see happening around me now: a country that is loud but empty and full of opinionated people but sadly, uninformed.

I don’t expect everyone to understand why I write or why I stay quiet when things are crazy. I do it because I believe that words have a slow power and they move differently. Words help us to remember who we are and who we could be.

I hope that when the noise dies down and the arguments stop, what is left is not anger. I hope what is left is the persistency of those who kept writing and reading. Literature may not change everything, but it is still the soul of civilization. Without it, we lose not only our stories but also our ability to envision a wiser, kinder world.

What a Million Dollars Could Build

I’ve come across this question more times than I can count: “If you had a million dollars to give away, who would you give it to?” And every time, I wonder why I would give it all away. If I’m being honest, I’d keep it. It’s not that I’m greedy, but I know exactly what I’d do with it. I’ve spent most of my life putting off dreams, setting aside passions, and delaying joy in the name of responsibility. That would change with a million dollars. It would let me breathe and stop merely getting by and begin living with a little more softness and space.

First, I would look after my family. I would pay off all of our debts, every last sen, until there would be no more worries about bills, school fees, or emergencies that come up out of the blue. I would put some of the money into investments, save some of it, and then I would finally let myself enjoy something I have always loved: books.

I’d buy all the books I’ve always wanted. These aren’t the ones found in chain stores, but the rare ones. The hard-to-find books that tell the history and tradition of my people. I’d look for heritage books published by the now-defunct Borneo Literature Bureau. These slim, worn books contain the voices of writers who wrote about us long before I was born. I’d buy the complete Encyclopedia of Iban Studies set from the Tun Jugah Foundation and every contemporary book that strives to record what we might forget. I wouldn’t hoard them, but I’d preserve these gems in my private collection. And I would keep them safe in a room with shelves and sunlight. A library for me and anyone else who needs to learn and remember where we came from.

Maybe that sounds selfish, but it’s a way for me to preserve my heritage, which is for the whole family and the generations after. But if I had to give it away, like if the million had to leave my hands and go to someone else, I wouldn’t give it away in cash. I’d use it to build something that would last and grow.

I’d set up a library. Perhaps more than one. In the interior of Sarawak, where villages are still without decent access to books, let alone libraries. Where stories are passed down through voices but never written. I’d create a place where kids could find books in their own language and where Iban stories are just as important as stories from other parts of the world. I’d build a place where books wouldn’t be locked behind glass but placed in the hands of the community to read and savor. And who knows, maybe a child who never saw herself reflected in school textbooks will see her village, her ancestors, and her identity printed on paper, validated in ink.

I’d make sure the internet actually works. I would stock not only novels and dictionaries but also materials that could broaden the mind, such as bilingual books, local folktales, science and art books, poetry, comics, storybooks for toddlers, and plenty of activity books. I’d make room for community events, nights of storytelling, and maybe even small poetry workshops in the future. The kind of space I never had when I was young.

To be honest, I wouldn’t give away a million dollars just to feel good about myself or tick a box labeled “generous.” I would use it to make something that is useful and necessary. I want to create one or more spaces where my Iban language can coexist with other languages. I want to help fund a place where the next generation won’t have to look so hard to find themselves.

The Pain of Dislocation | Writing My Way Back Home

There are moments in life when the ground feels stable, and other times it tilts, making you feel unsure of your footing. For me, those moments have to do with who I am, where I come from, where I live, and strange places in between. Being Iban has always been a big part of who I am, but there have been times when it felt like that part of me was invisible.

I grew up with stories of the longhouse, our folktales, and the old ways of life where dreams and rituals guided decisions. I heard the rhythm of the Iban language before I fully understood it. But outside of that space, I often felt like I was losing my identity. In classrooms filled with English and Malay textbooks, it felt like I had lost touch with my own culture. Teachers spoke of history, but it was always someone else’s story. My people’s stories were at best footnotes. I understood how it felt to be out of place without moving an inch.

When I moved to bigger cities later in life, the feeling got more prevalent. In Kuala Lumpur, I was just another face in the crowd, often mistaken for something other than Iban. It was more distinct in foreign countries. The language barrier was always there. Those around me spoke Mandarin or other languages, while I stayed quiet and tried to figure out what they were saying by watching their body language and tone. I carried silence with me on the train, in bookstores, and even in conversations at work. I had come looking for growth and new opportunities, but I often felt like I was shrinking and struggled to express who I really was. Being out of place became a daily condition.

The church was another complicated place. Faith helped me find my way, but there were times when I felt like I was giving up my roots for an identity that didn’t quite fit. The language, practices, lifestyle, and even the way people spoke about culture and tradition made it seem like there was no room for who I truly am. I sometimes felt the most alone when I was sitting on the pew with people I was supposed to belong with. The dissonance between my beliefs and my identity was truly difficult for me.

Watching younger generations of Ibans, including my children, drift away from the language and customs that shaped us has always been the hardest part. Many of them don’t even know how to speak Iban. They can speak English, Malay, or other languages, but they have trouble speaking or understanding the language of their parents or grandparents. When I see that, I feel the pain of dislocation in a different way. It’s not just that I don’t fit in with the world anymore; it’s that my culture is out of place in its own home. There is a drifting, like waves being pulled farther from shore, and I’m worried about how far it might go before it’s too late to return.

These experiences, though painful, have also taught me something important. Feeling out of place has made me want to reconnect with my roots even more. It has made me more determined to keep stories and traditions alive. It has made me contemplate how language and rituals hold memories and meaning and why remembering is important. What used to feel like absence has turned into a call to action.

This is why I return to writing. Poems, essays, and stories are more than self-expression; they are ways of keeping connection alive. When I write about the land where my ancestors lived or the river that carried their boats, I connect the past with the present. When I share cultural history on my blog, I am planting small reminders for my children and for anyone who might reconnect with their roots.

I have also come to understand that I am not only writing to preserve my culture but also to finally accept my cultural voice in my writing. My culture and identity are not distinct from my craft; they are the foundation from which it develops. The way I see the world and write about it is shaped by the Iban point of view. My unique voice possesses a texture and truth that no one else can match.

If you’ve ever felt like you are out of place, I want to tell you that that feeling doesn’t mean you don’t belong. It means that you are carrying a part of yourself that other people haven’t learned how to see yet. And maybe your role, like mine, is to bring that hidden part back into view. One story and one memory at a time.

Being out of place has become both a wound and a gift for me. It hurts to feel invisible, but it also makes you want to create, remember, and preserve. And maybe that’s the lesson: you don’t always get to belong. Sometimes, we have to keep building it for ourselves with art, words, and memories. When we build it from our core, based on our unique voice, that sense of belonging is unbreakable.

The Skill I Want to Learn | Remembering My Roots

When I first read the prompt, “What skill would you like to learn?” I hesitated. My mind didn’t wander to something new, like playing an instrument or taking up pottery. Instead, it returned to what has recently taken up the most of my heart and time: immersing myself in my people’s stories. I’ve been documenting my family history, translating Iban folktales into English and Malay, and researching the animistic beliefs that influenced how my ancestors lived in the past. It may not seem like a skill in the traditional sense, but it needs patience, dedication, and a consistent commitment to learning.

This kind of learning doesn’t feel like adding something new to my life; it feels more like uncovering something that was always there. I now realize that remembering is a skill in and of itself. It requires listening, interpreting, and writing in a way that stays true to the original voice while still making sense in today’s language. It is a craft that requires me to sit with pieces—sometimes just a phrase, a half-remembered childhood folktale, or a story told from one elder to another—and give them structure without losing their meaning.

In the past couple of years, I’ve been interested in customs, dreams, and oral traditions that were once a big part of the Iban’s daily life. Our ancestors believed that dreams weren’t just random things our brains conjured but guidance or warnings from the spirit world. To learn about these beliefs is to learn how closely they were tied to nature, animals, rivers, and things we can’t see. It’s not easy to translate stories like this. Each word has layers, and when you put them in a different language, each layer can change the meaning. I’m learning how to translate not just words but also worlds.

This process has shown me that preservation is an active skill. You can’t just admire a culture from afar or talk about heritage in general terms. To preserve heritage, you have to write it down, understand it, and pass it on. I know that these stories could disappear at any time if no one bothers to pass them on. It feels like weaving: taking loose strands and tying them together to make something strong enough to last.

I think often of my children. I picture them reading these writings one day and seeing parts of themselves reflected back. They might read about how brave their ancestors were or the rituals that used to guide community life. This could make them feel both wonder and a sense of belonging. That hope keeps me going. I don’t want them to get just bits and pieces. I want them to have a living archive that they can go back to when they feel rootless or want to know more about themselves. In this way, writing is both a gift and an inheritance.

This learning also helps me understand my own role in the chain. I’m not just preserving stories for the future; I’m also standing in the middle, receiving them from the past. There is humility in this position. Sometimes the stories seem too big for me to tell or too sacred to put into words. Sometimes I feel like I’m not qualified, like I’m trespassing on something I don’t fully understand. I feel like an imposter. But then I remember that this is also part of the task. Even if you’re not sure, simply paying attention is a form of dedication.

There are also challenges. To translate, you need to do research, compare things carefully, and sometimes spend a long time staring at a confusing sentence. Writing family histories requires being careful and accurate when deciding which details to include and which to leave out, as well as how to honor different voices in the same story. It’s not glamorous to learn these skills, but they make me more patient and give me more respect for those who came before me.

I’ve also been thinking about how I write. As someone who doesn’t speak English as their first language, I’ve had a hard time developing a consistent style. I wonder if my words will ever sound as smooth or polished as those of people who grew up with the language. But the more I write, the more I see that my culture and heritage are not barriers but strengths. They give me a writing voice that is shaped by the rhythms of the Iban language or by the oral storytelling traditions. These are the things that set my writing apart from a lot of other people who write about the same things. I could only come into my own when I embraced who I truly am: an Iban woman rich with cultural memory and life experience.

I’m also thankful for the resources that make this work possible. Old books, articles, and museum archives have been lifesavers for me because they have helped me learn things I couldn’t have found on my own. There are many people who worked hard and spent time writing down and putting together our culture into words. I wouldn’t be able to keep writing if they didn’t do their part. This gratitude keeps me focused and reminds me that I am part of a much bigger effort to keep culture alive.

If I had to sum up what I’m learning, I’d say that three things stand out. First, the ability to really listen to what is said and what isn’t said. Second, the ability to translate not only between languages but also between different meanings. Third, the skill of preserving, which means having the courage to hold memory in your hands and carefully write about it for the future generations. And now, maybe a fourth: the ability to trust my own writing voice, even when it sounds different than the ones expected.

So when I answer the prompt, “What skill would you like to learn?” my answer isn’t easy to show. I want to keep learning how to remember things. I want to get better at writing authentically, listening closely, honoring my culture, and sharing what I can while I am still here. These skills may not make a lot of impact, but they are important. They might not get a lot of praise, but they could keep a culture alive.

I’d Rather Be Doubted Than Silent

Not too long ago, someone flagged a piece I wrote. There was nothing mean in that piece, and I didn’t break any rules. Can you guess what the reason is? Because it was too well written for a non-native English writer. Ridiculous! But someone really thought it didn’t sound like it came from me.

I didn’t respond publicly. I didn’t start a thread or reply to her accusation to defend myself. I didn’t even remove the post. What I did do was let the shame sink in. Today I want to write about it. I don’t intend to reopen a wound but I want to acknowledge the silent damage that stays with you when someone tells you that this can’t be yours.

Writing has been a part of my life since I was a child. I wrote in journals, on pieces of paper, and as letters to myself. I write as naturally as I breathe. Sometimes as letters to myself. Sometimes raw. Sometimes lyrical and poetic. Sometimes with confidence or insecurity. They are all mine. Always. So when someone flagged my post for sounding too polished, I was in disbelief. Like it was some kind of a joke. I didn’t quite know how to describe it. Because if I dug deeper, I knew it wasn’t about that particular post, but what that skepticism implied—that my voice, my lived experience, my hard work, and my growth couldn’t possibly be real.

That I, as an Indigenous woman, mother, artist, and non-native English writer/speaker, couldn’t write with depth, nuance, or clarity without cheating. That if my writing sounded confident, careful, or flawless, it had to be fake or AI-generated.

The fear that comes from that is weird. It doesn’t rage or roar loudly. It feels like something petty that you should quietly let go. However, it lingers in the shadows of your next sentence. Should I simplify this sentence? Should I cut the metaphor? Should I get rid of this em dash or that Oxford comma so it doesn’t sound AI-ish?

Should I water myself down to avoid suspicion?

I hate that I have those thoughts right now. But I know I’m not the only one. I’ve seen it in other writers as well, especially those who write from the margins: obscure and unknown. Or in those who write in a language that is foreign to them. I’ve seen it in the ones who tell hard truths through rhythm, restraint, and image. Or those who write not to impress, but to stay alive. We’re often told to write honestly but punished when we do it well. We’re told to share our stories but questioned when our pieces are too good. We are told to write in our voice, but only if that voice sounds a certain way.

There are too many gatekeepers who claim to be defenders. People who think they’re protecting literature when they’re really just reinforcing old hierarchies in place.

They think people like me who didn’t grow up with English can’t produce good stories or poems. That if I do, God forbid, that must have been AI generated. That’s bloody censorship. It’s not imposed by platforms but by what they internalize. Prejudice. Don’t write like that. That sounds too good to be written by you.

Some of us shrink before we even begin.

I’m done dumbing myself down. I never write to impress anyone. I use it to express my truth. And the truth is that it has taken me years to find the right words. Years spent with memories. Years spent revising, rewriting, and returning to the page—not to make it sound perfect, but to sound like the real me.

If that voice has become sharper, it’s because I’ve earned it. If it sounds clear, that’s because I’ve been carrying fog for too long. If it rings true, it’s because I wrote long hours struggling with myself to put truth into words.

To the ones who doubted me: I won’t name you, but fuck you, paloi ko ya, and remember this—every time you silence a writer who has finally found her voice, you aren’t protecting integrity. You’re only showing how little you believe in growth, change, and acceptance. People grow, even those of us you didn’t expect to.

Sometimes I can still feel the sting of that rejection. But I won’t feel ashamed anymore. And this voice you hear now—shaped by memory, motherhood, culture, and survival—is real. I’d rather be doubted than stay silent.

The Farthest I’ve Been From Home

I always feel like I have to do more. Write more, draw more, make more, improve more, and perform more. There’s always something I haven’t finished. A file I haven’t uploaded, a design I need to tweak, a poem I must refine, a post I need to write, a plan I need to make. The list goes on for days and weeks, and even when I finish one thing, another takes its place before I can breathe.

I wake up thinking about it. I go to bed, still mentally rearranging tasks. I convince myself I am being responsible. I convince myself that I’m doing what I love. I tell myself that this is what I have chosen. But to be honest, most days all I want is to be done. I’m done with the expectations. I’m done with continually showing up. I’m done with the excessive urge to be productive. Everything seems to be extremely tiring, and I’ve almost reached the limit of what my mental, emotional, and physical state could cope with.

Most days, all I really want to do is read in bed in the afternoon. I want to let myself fall asleep while a book slips from my grasp. I want to wake up when I want to, not when the alarm goes off or someone needs me. I want to stop feeling guilty for taking a break. I want to stop seeing time as something I owe to others.

It sounds easy, right? Not at all, because I’ve built a life where I have to earn my rest. I keep telling myself that I don’t deserve to stop until everything is done. I’ve always believed that slowing down was a sign of weakness and that being worn out was proof that I was accomplishing enough.

Maybe it’s aging or the weariness of parenting. Maybe it’s the silent accumulation of years spent prioritizing the needs of others. However, these days I don’t dream of escape or achievement. I want silence. I want weightlessness. I want the freedom to stop carrying everything for everyone all the time. Sometimes I think the farthest I’ve ever been from home isn’t an actual place, but rather this version of myself that feels I must earn my rest.

Even when I traveled far, like when I lived in other countries, stayed in new cities, or walked streets where no one knew my name—I still carried the same urge to prove my worth. I wish I could go back and tell the younger version of myself that you don’t have to fill every moment. Your life doesn’t have to be a performance. You’re allowed to exist without having to produce or create anything. You’re free to just be.

The truth is, I’m struggling to believe it now. I can’t convince myself that it’s okay to read in bed anytime I want, and I doze off when my eyes feel heavy. I’m struggling to believe that everything I’ve built won’t fall apart if I do nothing for a few hours. Because if I never feel free in my creative life, what good is it?

I experienced that same heaviness after lunch today. I guess it stems from sheer exhaustion.

I looked at my to-do list. I looked at my computer. And then I looked away. I carried a novel and jumped into bed. I let the afternoon go. I could always write and draw something new tomorrow. They all could wait. And right now, I need to read. And sleep.

The Cry of the Koklir | An Iban Ghost Story

Before I share my experiences, I’d want to clarify who the koklir is and what she represents in Iban belief.

People often think of the Iban people of Sarawak as headhunters, which is a part of our history, but it tends to eclipse the deeper aspects of who we are. However, our culture is not only based on headhunting. We have a strong spiritual connection to the natural world, which is rich in stories about spirits that live in rivers, lands, mountains, and dreams. Our folklores are alive with omens, taboos, and the spirits of people who have departed. Some spirits protect, some guide, and others, like the koklir, are said to return because something in their death was left unresolved.

In Iban culture, the koklir is one of the most feared spirits. She is believed to be the spirit of a woman who died during childbirth or shortly thereafter, specifically during the vulnerable bekindu period, which lasts for forty days of healing and recuperation. Her death is known as busong mati, or a spiritually unfortunate death, and her soul is considered to become jai (malevolent). Her soul is malevolent not because she did something wrong in life, but because her death was unnatural and tragic. Her spirit doesn’t cross over to the other side in peace; instead, it lingers behind, transformed by pain and grief.

As a ritual precaution, lime thorns (duri limau) are poked into her hands and soles before she is buried. It’s a symbolic act aimed at weakening her spirit and preventing her from becoming a koklir. Some people allege that her tongue is also pierced.

Then a prayer is being offered, asking her to rest and not come back to bother the living. But if the ritual isn’t done or if the death is really violent or sudden, people say she might still come back to haunt, seek, and punish.

The koklir is believed to target men. Most of the time, you can hear her presence through a chilling cry that starts out like a hen calling her chicks: “kok, kok, kok…” and ends with a piercing, terrifying “haiiiiii waiiiiii!” Before she attacked her victim, she would scream “kokliiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrr”. She sometimes takes the form of a beautiful woman, hiding her face with a tanggui serawong (woven sunhat) or a kubong leaf. Sometimes she manifests as an enturun, a shaggy, nocturnal bearcat with long claws. Some men say they’ve heard her voice in the jungle or by the river at night. Some people say they’ve seen her scratch at windows or doors with fingers that look like claws. The stories are shared quietly among men, usually late at night, and sometimes with fear or bravado.

I’ve never seen her. But would you believe me if I told you I heard her twice? And I remember it very well both times.

First Encounter

I was fourteen. It was the first day of the school break. Because my flight home was later that night, I was the only student left at the girls’ hostel at my boarding school. Everyone else had left throughout the day. The hostel was quiet and empty.

That morning, the warden told me to turn off the lights and close all the doors before I left. I said I would. After dinner, at about 6 PM, I took my bags outside and waited for my cousin to pick me up. It was getting dark already.

Before leaving, I went back in to do what I promised: turn off the lights and close the doors. I went up to the first floor, strolled through the empty corridor, and did what I had to do. The only sound was the rustling leaves blowing in the breeze. Everything else was still and quiet.

I heard something as I came back down, near the bathroom on the ground floor.

“Kok… kok… kok…”

It was soft and faint, exactly like a hen calling its chicks.

But this was a school compound. No nearby houses, no chickens. Just trees and a greenhouse. I stopped and listened again. I thought maybe I imagined it. I finished what I was doing and went back to the entrance. I stood there in the light of the corridor, looking out at the road. Everything else around me was dark.

Then, around 7PM, I heard it again.

“Kok… kok… kok… kok…”

It was slower and closer.

I felt chills and goosebumps all over my body. I was too scared to look around. I just kept my eyes on the road, expecting to see my cousin’s headlights. He came soon after that. I hastily loaded my bags into the car and drove away. I never looked back.

I didn’t see her, but I know what I heard. We believe that the koklir doesn’t harm girls or women because she only targets men. That gave me some comfort, but the sound stuck with me for years.

Second Encounter

I was still living in the same hostel a year later. I didn’t hear her voice this time, but I did hear something else. My bed was next to the door. Sometimes, I would wake up to a loud scratching sound at the door. I believed it was stray dogs trying to get in, so I went back to sleep.

However, I looked at the door one morning because I was curious. There were scratch marks, but they weren’t at the bottom where a dog could reach them. They were higher up, around chest height. That detail stuck with me. What kind of dog can scratch that high?

I didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t want to scare the others, especially the younger girls. But I remembered what the elders used to say: the koklir scratches at doors and windows with her long nails to find a way in.

After that, the scratching happened every now and then. I didn’t say anything about it until much later. I told the story years later in our WhatsApp group for former dormmates. I was surprised to learn that I wasn’t the only one. Others remembered the same sounds from the same door and that same feeling of unease. However, we all stayed quiet, but we were all scared.

Some people might not believe these stories. They can argue it’s merely animals, wind, imagination, or ridiculous stories from the natives. But I don’t think I made anything up since I know what I heard.

These encounters aren’t just stories about ghosts. She is a reminder of how deeply the Iban people see death and life as intertwined, how even grief has a place in our stories. As Iban people, we understand spiritual realms that involve death, grief, and the things that linger. The koklir is a reminder of women who died too young or too soon, often forgotten or feared, yet still searching for peace. She didn’t show herself to me. But I heard her cry and have never forgotten it, even after decades have passed.