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

It’s silent. Steady. Rooted.

I am passionate about remembering and honoring.

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

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

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

Will they recognize the sound of pantun sung at dusk?

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

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

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

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

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

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

So that is my passion.

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

And that is how I love myself.

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