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.

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.

The Story Behind the Iban Hand Tattoo, Tegulun

Have you ever heard of the Iban hand tattoo called tegulun? It’s one of the most striking forms of body art in our culture, yet not many people know what it really means. I found an old photo taken in 1962 from Life in a Longhouse by Hedda Morrison. It shows the hands of an Iban man with very detailed tattoos that go all the way down to his fingers. The pattern is tegulun.

In the Iban language, tattoos are called pantang or kalingai. Every tattoo on the body used to mean something. Tattoos weren’t fashion statements but they were living records of a person’s journey, courage, and place in the community. Each motif, like bungai terung (eggplant flower), ketam (crab), or kala (scorpion), meant something. For men, tattoos often showed that they participated in headhunting expeditions, or gone through rites of passage. For women, only the most skilled pua kumbu weavers were allowed to bear them.

Among women, the right to be tattooed was not given lightly. A woman known as “Indu Tau Nakar, Indu Tau Gaar”, was a master weaver who earned her tegulun through artistic and spiritual labor. With her hands, she made sacred pua kumbu cloths used in rituals such as receiving enemy heads. The tattoo on her fingers didn’t symbolize violence; it reflected her connection to the spirit world through weaving. These women were highly respected, for they were believed to hold the gift to translate dreams and visions into woven form.

The meaning of tegulun was very different for men. Those who carried it were known as kala bedengah—warriors who had taken part in ngayau, or headhunting expeditions. Someone who had tegulun on his hands was a man who had proven himself in battle. The tattoo was a visible sign of his courage and strength of spirit. It was said that every line or curve on the fingers stood for a head of an enemy that had been killed in the war.

Looking at those tattooed fingers in old photographs, one can almost feel their importance in the past. The men who bore them were not only fighters but also protectors of their culture and their way of life. They lived by a complex set of moral codes that were based on omens, dreams, and rituals. Taking a head was never an act of impulse; it was part of a ceremony tied to the safety, fertility, and prosperity of the longhouse.

One of the most well-known Iban warriors who carried tegulun was Temenggong Koh (1870–1956), a tuai serang (war leader) from Kapit, Sarawak. His fingers were covered in tegulun, each one telling a story of victory and survival. Temenggong Koh once gave his nyabur, the sword he used during ngayau, to Malcolm MacDonald, a British diplomat. The blade still bore traces of dried blood and is now displayed at the Durham University Oriental Museum in the UK.

It’s difficult to imagine that such traditions existed within living memory. Today, there are no Iban men who bear tegulun. The British made headhunting illegal after World War II. The last “licensed” expeditions took place during the Malayan Emergency and Communist Insurgency, when Iban trackers were recruited to assist the British. After that time, the custom of taking heads and the tattoos that went with it completely died out.

The tegulun is more than a reminder of war. It refers to a time when everything, from fighting to making art, was connected to the spiritual order of the world. Tattoos linked the body to the world that can’t be seen. They reflected not only bravery but also a sense of belonging. A man or woman who bore them carried the stories of their people and passed them down through the generations.

Those meanings are at risk of being lost today. Most young Ibans have only seen people with tegulun in books or museum photos. But it’s important to understand them. These tattoos show us how our ancestors thought about life, death, and the sacred balance between the two. They remind us that strength can show itself in many ways, like when you swing a nyabur (sword) or sometimes in the patient rhythm of weaving a pua kumbu.

To learn about tegulun, you have to look beyond the surface of the skin. Though the ink has faded and the rituals have ended, the meanings remain alive in memory. They are echoes from another time, reminding us that every mark and line once carried a story worth telling and remembering.

Image source: Life in a Longhouse by Hedda Morrison

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.

Why the Ibans Took Heads In the Past

A quick disclaimer before I begin. Some people may find this topic upsetting because headhunting led to conflict between different ethnic groups. I don’t intend to glorify the practices of my ancestors; I just want to share what I know, especially since many people, even younger Ibans, don’t fully understand the reasons behind it. Taking a life is wrong by today’s standards, and from a modern perspective I do not support it. But we can’t change history, and judging the past by our present lens doesn’t help us understand it. What we can do is listen and learn.

The Iban had their own reasons and beliefs for taking heads. One of the most significant was to end the mourning period, a practice called ngetas ulit. When someone in the community died, the longhouse would mourn for a period of time. During this time, certain rules and taboos were followed. A ritual that demanded a fresh head was performed to end the mourning period. The family of the deceased would consult the longhouse community, and the men would plan a ngayau (head-hunting expedition) together. After getting a head, a series of complex rituals signaled the end of grief. Killing to end mourning may sound strange today, but for the Iban it was part of a cultural process called nyilih pemati, a symbolic offering for the dead.

Another reason was the belief that antu pala (enemy skulls) had spiritual power. The Iban in the old days believed that these skulls would bring blessings if they were taken care of. Antu pala also played an important part in the Gawai Burung (the Bird Festival), which was one of the most important Iban ceremonies. As part of this complicated ceremony, the lemambang (bard) would use the skulls in his pengap (chants) to invoke the god of war, Sengalang Burong. This festival has probably disappeared because most Ibans are now Christian or Muslim, but it still holds a place in oral tradition.

There were other uses for skulls as well. They were used in healing rituals, ceremonies to call for rain during times of drought, and as guardians to protect the longhouse or farms from enemies and wild animals. In this regard, the skull became a spiritual servant for the person who kept it. They also carried social meaning. If a man didn’t take a head, he was likely called a coward or kulup (uncircumcised), and these men were not seen as good husbands. Iban society valued courage and bravery very highly.

Some have asked why heads were taken instead of other body parts. The answer lies in old beliefs. Our ancestors believed that the head was the center of a person’s life force. The head could be clearly identified, unlike the hands or feet. In the past, families knew exactly whose head was kept, even after years of blackening from smoke. Today, those identities are no longer shared openly. Imagine getting married to someone from another tribe and then walking into a longhouse and saying, “Honey, that skull belonged to your ancestor.” We have learned that silence is a way to protect the living while still honoring the past.

So, do antu pala still exist? Yes. Some Iban families keep them, like mine. They can be kept in the sadau (the top floor of the longhouse) or hung in groups called tampun on the roof. We don’t see them as trophies but as things that deserve respect. If you don’t take care of them, they can bring bad luck, so you must abide by strict rituals to keep them safe.

This picture shows a tampun that belonged to my ancestor, Unggang Lebur Menua, an Iban warrior from the late 18th century. It has 34 antu pala that are more than 200 years old, and is now kept by relatives at Rh. Panjang Matop, Paku, Betong. It serves as a reminder of a different time, when survival, belief, and identity were connected in ways that may be difficult for us to understand now.

I hope this helped you learn more about a part of Iban history that continues to live in our collective memory.

Image source: Youtube

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.

Pengarap Lama Iban | Iban Animistic Beliefs

TL;DR:

A simplified overview of traditional Iban animistic beliefs, including the Supreme God (Petara), nature spirits, ancestral souls, and mystical beings like Kumang and Keling. These oral stories, once passed down generation to generation, are now slowly being archived here from my Threads posts for easier access and deeper reflection.

Prior to the arrival of Christianity and Islam, the Iban people practiced a form of animism. It’s a complex belief system where spirits existed in rivers, jungles, animals, dreams, and even illnesses. Though most Ibans today identify as Christians, many still observe traditional customs during weddings, festivals, and ancestral rites. It’s worth noting that the Iban never had a written system to record these beliefs. Every story and ritual was passed down orally from one generation to the next. Because of this, different river regions or divisions often have slightly different versions of the same story, each molded by the voices and landscapes that keep them alive.

Here is a short, simple summary of this complex cosmology that you can use as a reference. I’ve been actively posting about Iban culture, legends, and folklore on Threads, but now I’m slowly fleshing them out and archiving them here for my readers.

Note: I’ll touch more about the Sengalang Burong’s family when I write about Iban omens and augury.

Core Beliefs

Iban animism is based on the idea that there are many spiritual beings that are part of everyday life and the afterlife. These include:

Supreme God, called Petara / Tuhan or Raja Entala
Deities and spirits, called Bunsu Petara – each with their own roles i.e Sengalang Burong
Spirits of ancestors, called Petara Aki Ini – often called upon during rites like Gawai Antu i.e roh nenek moyang
Spirits of nature, found in animals, plants, rivers, and forests and also include Bunsu Antu i.e jin, iblis
Mystical beings from the sky realm called Panggau Libau and Gelong i.e Kumang, Keling

Dreams were (and still are) taken seriously, often seen as spiritual messages. If a deity (i.e Sengalang Burong) or mystical being (i.e Kumang) appears in a dream, it’s treated as guidance that must be followed.

Categories of Gods and Spirits

1) Petara / Tuhan (Supreme God)

Also known as Raja Entala
Creator of all living things

2) Seven Main Deities / Bunsu Petara (Who live in the realm of Tangsang Kenyalang)

These seven deities are the children of Raja Jembu and Endu Endat Baku Kansat. Raja Jembu is the son of Raja Durong and Endu Kumang Cheremin Bintang. There is more to this lineage, but for simplicity, let’s just focus on Raja Jembu’s family. These seven deities or Bunsu Petara, are often invoked in Iban poetry, like pengap and timang.

Sengalang Burong – God of war (Sengalang Burong’s wife is Endu Sudan Beringan Bungkong. They have eight children including a daughter, Endu Dara Tinchin Temaga)
Biku Bunsu Petara – God of resources
Sempulang Gana – God of agriculture
Selempandai – God of creation and procreation
Menjaya Manang – God of healing
Anda Mara – God of wealth
Ini Andan – Female spirit doctor and goddess of justice

3) Mystical Beings (Who live in the land above the sky, Panggau Libau and Gelong)

Kumang, Keling Gerasi Nading, Kelinah Indai Abang (Keling’s sister), Lulong, Laja, Pungga, Selinggar Matahari, Sempurai Bungai Nuing, Tutong (Kumang’s brother) – Divine beings who help humans succeed in life, especially warriors and brave people. Kumang and Keling appeared more in dreams compare to the rest.

4) Spirits of Nature

Bunsu Jelu – Animal spirits
Antu Utai Tumboh – Plant spirits
Bunsu Antu – Ghosts or restless spirits, some helpful, some harmful

5) Souls of Ancestors / Petara Aki Ini

Honored during rituals like Gawai Antu
Believed to offer blessings and protection when remembered properly

Fragments of Obsession V | What Remains of Him

This fragment of obsession is a continuation of Part 4. You can find the first four parts here: part 1, part 2, part 3, and part 4.

The Victims

They stay with him. That much I know.

They weren’t merely evidence in sealed bags. They had names. They had voices. They were echoes in a room where someone had begged, bled, or died without being heard. They live somewhere behind his eyes, hidden deep down but never completely out of reach.

He doesn’t discuss them. But I can sense it in the way he moves, sometimes too still like he’s bracing for the inevitable. I wonder which one visits him in sleep. Whose case file he opens up in his dream without meaning to.

He must have a list in his head. A list of faces, some vaguely remembered, some impossible to forget. The girl with the red hoodie. The elderly man found with his hands tied. The body that no one claimed.

I used to think that grief only belonged to families and those who loved them. However, there is a certain kind of pain that comes from being the last person to look at their picture, read their texts, or trace their final hour backwards. He carries that deep in his soul, mourning for people he never knew.

Maybe it hardens something in him. Or maybe it makes him gentler in ways he doesn’t realize. The truth is I don’t know. I just know that he touches the evidence gently. And he blinks slower than usual when he stares at a photo too long.

In my culture, the spirits—antu—linger when death is unresolved. Some say they roam, whispering into the ears of the living. He doesn’t fear ghosts or darkness. The ones that haunt him are printed on paper, kept in boxes, and saved on hard drives. There they remain. Always waiting. Always watching.

The Walk

He walks at night, but not every night. Only on those when sleep is a stranger and the weight on his chest refuses to lift. He seeks the hour between two and four. That’s when the world goes quiet, signaling him to step out.

He brings no phone, has no destination. Just his feet on the pavement, carrying his momentum through sleeping streets. He passed shuttered shops, empty lots, and the lonely glow of neon signs. In this slumber, the city is transformed—muted, and temporarily pacified.

Is he trying to shake them off? The blood, the tragedies, and the ghosts that cling to the inside of his eyelids? Or is he chasing the silence he can’t find inside? Or maybe he just believes that if he walks long enough, the chaos in his head will have to settle.

Hands in pockets, shoulders a permanent slope. From afar, he’s just a man. But a closer look at his eyes would tell you everything.

This is the unseen part. The aftermath, stripped of crime scenes and case files. There is no suspect to corner, no puzzle to solve. He’s a man alone with the night, waiting to feel human again.

In that moment, I don’t see the criminologist. I see a tired man who would rather move through the honest darkness of the streets than lie still in a loud, empty room.

Epilogue

All of this, I’ve only imagined. The desk. The scene. The interrogation. The victims. The walk. They’re a part of his life that I will never touch. He doesn’t talk about it much, at least not directly. A line may slip out from time to time, and that’s it. Most of it comes through in other ways, like when he gets too quiet and his hands stop moving. The tension in his jaw after a long day. The shadows beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep seems to erase.

There are nights he startles awake. He never says why, just lies there, breathing heavily. I never ask either. I simply wait for his return.

What he endures is his own. And I’ve stopped trying to reach for it. His work is an extension of who he is, bound to his bones. It affects how he sees the world and how he protects others without even thinking about it.

However, there are times when it becomes apparent. Like when he touches me and listens to me even when I say something silly. Or how he holds silence like it’s sacred.

I used to think he was distant. But now I understand: he was too full of things he could never say. I write these fragments not to know him better or to hope that he’ll find them. He won’t. The door closed two decades ago. These are the only pieces I kept.

Fragments of Obsession IV | The Criminologist

Some time ago I began writing Fragments of Obsession, brief glimpses into a private world of desire and distance. These new pieces pick up where the last ones left off, but they explore a darker area: the world of a criminologist.

I can’t sit at his desk or walk with him into the places he inhabits. All I have are fragments, imagined through the silence between us. They’re not about the crimes themselves but rather the places around them: his desk, the crime scene, and the interrogation room.

What interests me is not the evidence he gathers, but the burden that persists afterward. These pieces are how I watch from the outside and write about things I’ll never see. They belong to the same map of longing I began tracing in the first three Fragments of Obsession — part 1, part 2, part 3.

The Desk

I never stood in front of it, but I know it like I’ve touched its surface a thousand times in my mind. A desk that holds the stories that no one wants to tell, and even fewer want to hear. Its top is scratched, probably from years of people dropping folders, forgotten coffee cups, and constant shuffles of pens and clips. Sturdy but with scars like him.

On one side, there is an uneven stack of papers threatening to tumble. Case notes, autopsy reports, and transcripts of late-night interviews with men who lie easily and women who have given up on getting justice. I imagine the edges fading from being read too often, held in worn hands. Underneath them, photographs turned face down, and the victim’s eyes still burning even when hidden.

The other side is neater. A computer. A notebook with a page full of his neat, small handwriting. His pen would sometimes rest diagonally across it, with ink smudges on the margins where he applied pressure too hard. I imagine him hesitating mid-thought, his brows furrowing.

There must be a hidden gun nearby. Cold, clinical, and within his reach. The barrel pointing nowhere, a constant reminder of how violence is always a part of his life. My people never lived with guns except for the ones that were passed down to us. My grandfather’s shotgun passed to my father and now to my eldest brother. A hunting tool, not for murder. Unloaded but heavy with potential, lingering like a sinister presence at the periphery of every thought.

I can see his hand, with raised veins and long fingers, tracing the tabletop absentmindedly when fatigue creeps in. A gesture that seems almost loving, as if he were anchoring himself. He’s a man who has read too many lies in too many statements. He doesn’t stop. He keeps returning to this desk, like a man returning to his menua, the land he was born in, where his roots are waiting for him, no matter how far he has gone.

I’ll never sit across from him there. I only know it through imagination. This distance allows me to observe things that others may overlook: the silence around him, the way the desk has become an extension of his body, his determination, and his solitude.

The Crime Scene

I picture it as the opposite of his desk. No order, no familiar scratches, no steady ground. There was chaos sealed off by yellow tape. It’s a place where a life has ended and everything normal—shoes by the door, a half-empty cup on the table, a curtain in the wind—suddenly feels obscene.

The air is thick with things that can’t be cleaned. The iron tang of blood and the sour staleness of fear. A house where someone used to laugh is now silent. He goes through it methodically, but I know he notices everything. The scattered belongings. How things look wrong when they aren’t where they belong. The imprint of violence that remains like smoke after a fire.

He kneels by the details others step over. A broken clasp. Mud tracked across the tiles. Fibers snagged on a nail. His hand hovers above them, never in a hurry or careless. He bends down low to collect evidence. I imagine how his eyes narrow as he gathers pieces that the rest of us can’t see.

Somewhere close, a camera flashes, officers talk, and someone fills in a logbook. He moves like none of them are there. The scene is speaking to him. It tells him what to look for, what to doubt, and what doesn’t belong.

And maybe he thinks of the victim too. Not just as a body drawn in chalk, but as a person who went barefoot over this floor and brushed their teeth at that sink. He’s seen too many of them. Each scene digs into him like a thumbnail.

According to my people, when someone dies tragically, the place becomes restless. You don’t linger there long unless you want to carry that darkness home. He has to stay. He lets the silence seep into him and the darkness push against his skin. This is the only way to read what the dead left behind. The chaos doesn’t stay behind when he finally steps back over the tape. It follows him and becomes the real evidence he can never log.

The Interrogation Room

I can see it clearly, even though I’ve never been inside. The walls are bare and dull gray with faint finger prints on the paint from palms dragged in terror, boredom, or defiance. A single table in the center with uneven legs. One chair on each side but only one feels in charge.

I imagine the air stale with breath and the absence of sunlight. There are no windows to the outside world. Only a dark pane of glass on one wall. He knows they’re watching. He doesn’t care. His focus is always here. This is a space where people stall, spin, crack, or burn.

He sits across from them. Calm. Still like the river at dusk before swallowing the last light. He doesn’t raise his voice. He waits and lets them fill the silence with their own guilt. Lets them fidget, lie, and repeat themselves. Lets them feel uncomfortable about what they said.

There’s always a file in front of him. Sometimes it’s closed. Sometimes it’s open to a photo or a sentence scribbled in red. He doesn’t look at it much. He stares at them, watches how their jaw moves, how they scratch their nose, and how their eyes dart to the door when they think no one’s watching.

I wonder if he thinks of the victim while he listens. If he remembers the angle of the neck, the bruise on the cheek, and the time of death. If he keeps those pieces in his pockets like charms, reminding him of who he’s really speaking for.

In my people’s old way of life, truth wasn’t pried out in rooms like these. We invoked Ini Andan, the goddess of justice, and waited for signs. Now there are only fluorescent lights and CCTV. The ritual remains the same. Watching. Listening. Putting the soul on a scale.

He doesn’t need to catch them lying. They’ll hand it over eventually. Little by little, like decaying meat falling apart in their hands.

Note:

I’m still working through two more fragments—The Victims and The Walk. They’ll come when they’re ready, and together they’ll complete this small sequence of obsession.

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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.

Iban Folktale | The Tale of Tekuyong and Pelandok

A long time ago, when animals could talk like we do, the river snail, Tekuyong, was slowly moving across a wide rock by the riverbank. His body glistened in the morning light as he licked moss off the stone and nibbled quietly.

Pelandok, the mousedeer, came along. He was light-footed and couldn’t sit still. He was sniffing the ground for soft buan leaves to chew. He stopped and yelled, “Oi, Sambi Tekuyong!” when he saw Tekuyong stuck to the rock with his head bowed. (Sambi means “friend or pal.”) “Why are you sitting there so still? You’re not moving at all.”

Tekuyong lifted his feelers. “I’m not idle, Sambi. I’m eating the moss by licking the stone. That is my food.”

Pelandok tossed his head back and chuckled as he heard this. He laughed until his little body shook. He laughed until his eyes welled up with tears, and his bladder gave way, soaking the ground.

Tekuyong watched silently. When Pelandok finally caught his breath, Tekuyong asked, “What is so funny, Sambi? Why are you laughing at me?”

Pelandok, however, pointed to Tekuyong’s sluggish, gliding body and continued to laugh. Shame burned at Tekuyong’s heart. “Enough, Sambi,” he finally said. “Since you find me so amusing, gather all the animals together to watch us race. We’ll find out who is actually faster in a week.”

Pelandok clapped his hoofs in delight at this. “A race? Against you? Ha! I will surely win.”

They decided that the course would run from the foot of the hill where they were standing to the great rock by the sea.

Pelandok trotted through the jungle that evening to tell everyone about the race. “Come on, everyone! Watch me, the fastest creature in the forest, defeat Tekuyong the snail!” The monkeys shrieked with laughter, and the birds spread the news with their calls. Soon, the whole jungle was buzzing with excitement.

Tekuyong, on the other hand, crept home with a heavy heart. He called his family together and said, “I challenged Pelandok, but I wish I hadn’t. How can I ever outrun him? He runs as fast as lightning, but I crawl slower than a feather in the wind.”

Some of his family members whispered and shook their heads. One person said, “Why didn’t you think before you spoke? It is better to accept shame than to face certain defeat.”

But Tekuyong stood up straight and said, “If you won’t help me think, then I must think for myself.” He paused for a moment before revealing his plan.

“Apai (Father), Aya (Uncle), and Aki (Grandfather), I need you.” You must wait at different points along the racecourse and pretend to be me. Aki, wait upon the rock by the shore. Aya, take your place at the midpoint. Apai, sit beneath the big tree near the finishing line. You all have to shout when Pelandok passes so he thinks I’m ahead of him. As for me, I’ll start the race next to him and then hide.”

The older snails nodded slowly. “It is cunning,” Aki said. “Let us see if arrogance can be taught a lesson.”

The week went by quickly. On the appointed day, all the animals in the forest came together. Monkeys hung from branches, hornbills flew overhead, kendawang (red headed krait) snakes slithered on the ground, and wild boars dug around the edge of the clearing. The air was full of excitement.

At the starting line, Tekuyong and Pelandok stood next to each other. They picked rhinoceros to start the race. As he counted “One! Two! Three! Run!” his deep voice shook the ground.

Pelandok shot forward like a dart from a blowpipe, his hooves hitting the ground like drums. Dust flew in his wake. While everyone was busy admiring Pelandok’s speed, Tekuyong moved slightly, then silently rolled into the grass and vanished from view.

The crowd cheered for Pelandok’s speed. “Look how fast he is!” the monkeys yelled. “The poor snail will never make it to the end.”

But when Pelandok reached the rocky shore, there sat Aki Tekuyong, waiting calmly.

“Apu! (Oh no!)” Pelandok gasped in disbelief. “How can Tekuyong already be here?” He pushed himself harder.

At the midpoint, Aya Tekuyong called out cheerfully, “I’m ahead, Sambi! Why are you so slow?”

Pelandok’s heart raced. “Apu! Apu! He has beaten me again!” He ran until sweat streamed down his body and his breath tore at his chest.

Near the finish line, his legs trembling, he looked up, and there was Apai Tekuyong, waiting under the big tree! Pelandok collapsed, his sides heaving, his body drenched in sweat. “Apu! I am defeated,” he admitted.

Apai Tekuyong smiled gently. “Why are you so slow, Sambi? I’ve been waiting here for a long time.”

Pelandok bowed his head in shame. “Yes, I have lost.”

“Let this be your lesson, Sambi,” Apai Tekuyong said with a smile. “Don’t ever laugh at other people or think you’re better than them. Each of us has our strength, even the least of us.”

So Pelandok never mocked Tekuyong again. And all the animals who were there that day took the story home with them. That’s why the Iban people still say malu tekuyong today. It means shyness, which comes from respect. For example, when someone invites you to dance the ngajat (Iban traditional dance) or speak in front of the elders, you feel both honored and somewhat uncomfortable or embarrassed. We call that feeling malu tekuyong.

And that is how the snail taught the mousedeer and gave us a saying that we still use today.

Note:
I translated this folktale from Iban into English and Malay. The Malay version is available on my Threads. The original story was written by Gregory Nyanggau Mawar and published on the Iban Cultural Heritage website.

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.