Sengalang Burong and the Origins of Iban Augury

Before the arrival of Christianity and Islam, the Iban people practiced a complex system of animistic belief. The world was seen as alive with spirits; some benevolent, some unpredictable, residing in rivers, jungles, animals, and dreams. The desire to stay in harmony with these unseen forces guided every aspect of farming, hunting, and war.

Scholars such as Benedict Sandin and Clifford Sather suggest that early contact with Hindu-Minangkabau traditions from Sumatra may have influenced some aspects of Iban spirituality. These influences probably came when noblemen and their followers from the Majapahit kingdom fled westward at the end of the empire to escape persecution as Muslim rule expanded. They brought with them knowledge of rituals, governance, war, and agriculture. These ideas were slowly taken in and reinterpreted through the Iban worldview.

From this convergence emerged a cosmology rich with ritual poetry, omens, and divine intermediaries. One of its most complicated systems is augury, a sacred form of divination that reads the calls and looks of certain birds as messages from the spirit world. These omen birds are still an important part of Iban ritual life, especially during farming and community events.

Sengalang Burong, the Iban God of War and messenger of the gods, is at the heart of this belief. He established the system of augury that connects the physical world with the spiritual world. Through him, communication between the two is made possible. The living interpret every sighting and call of an omen bird as a sign from God.

Sengalang Burong: The Iban God of War

In Iban belief, Sengalang Burong is the most revered of all deities. He is remembered as both the God of War and the divine messenger who connects the world of humans with the world of gods. Many ritual invocations and prayers include his name, and people often ask him for courage, protection, and clarity.

According to oral tradition, Sengalang Burong descends from Raja Jembu, a powerful deity whose family tree goes back to Raja Durong of Sumatra. It is said that Raja Durong and his followers fled their home near the end of the Majapahit era. They brought with them religious and cultural traditions that were influenced by Hindu-Minangkabau beliefs. These encompassed ritualistic practices, frameworks of social governance, agricultural knowledge, and strategies of warfare. Over time, these ideas merged with the Iban’s indigenous worldview, creating the spiritual framework that shaped their understanding of the cosmos.

In Iban ritual liturgy, Raja Jembu is the guardian of the batu umai, which is a sacred whetstone used in Iban farming rituals. He married Endu Endat Baku Kansat, and they had six sons and one daughter together. Their children became the main pantheon of the Iban gods, Bunsu Petara.

Sengalang Burong, the oldest son, rules from Tansang Kenyalang (Hornbill’s Nest), in a realm high in the sky. On earth, he transforms into a Brahminy Kite, known affectionately among the Iban as Aki Lang (Grandfather Lang). He guides humankind through omen birds that act as his messengers. Through these birds, he sends divine messages that govern decisions related to farming, war, and community affairs.

Sengalang Burong married Endu Sudan Berinjan Bungkong, and together they had seven daughters and one son. Each daughter married a nobleman who became one of the seven omen birds: Ketupong, Beragai, Bejampong, Pangkas, Embuas, Kelabu Papau, and Burung Malam. Nendak, the eighth omen bird, is Sengalang Burong’s faithful messenger.

These eight omen birds form the foundation of the Iban system of augury. Their calls, directions of flight, and behavior are interpreted during rituals to determine whether an action, such as starting a journey, planting paddy, or launching a war expedition—is blessed or forbidden. For the Iban, these signs are not superstition but sacred communication. They represent the continuing dialogue between the natural and the spiritual worlds, a system established by Sengalang Burong himself.

In future posts, I will explain more about each omen bird and its role within Iban augury.

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.

On Cultural Erasure and the Right to Be Ourselves | We Are Not Yours to Claim and Rename

This week, a man on social media told me that all Indigenous peoples of Borneo are Malay. He spoke as if it were an unbreakable truth, and a few confident sentences could change centuries of culture and memory. He talked like someone who was certain of his place in the world and couldn’t imagine that others might have histories older than his own.

I am Iban. You can’t claim and rename my people.

That one conversation was a sign of a much larger issue. It wasn’t just a rude comment but the same old narrative that keeps playing beneath the surface of national conversations. This idea that everything in the Nusantara archipelago belongs under the Malay umbrella is not unity. It is colonization in a new form that continues to erase the cultures that make this region truly diverse.

A thesis essay titled “Cultural Genocide Against Ethnic Groups in Sarawak” discusses this gradual erasure as a form of genocide that occurs through language, law, and land instead of war. It addresses what has been happening in Sarawak and all over Borneo for decades: the gradual disappearance of Indigenous ways of life. There won’t be any violence in the news, but you can see it in how children forget their native languages and how native stories are rewritten or how they are dismissed as myths.

The first impact is on the land. Large-scale logging, oil-palm plantations, and hydroelectric projects like the Bakun and Murum dams have forced Indigenous communities to evacuate ancestral lands they had occupied for generations. For many outsiders, these are symbols of progress. For the people who lived on that land, they are the loss of a living relative. Land isn’t just property; it’s a memory, a source of livelihood, and the center of our beliefs. When it is taken, the connection between people and their ancestors, between rituals and the land, ceases to exist.

The next impact is on language. Malay and English are the main languages spoken in classrooms and offices. Iban, Bidayuh, Penan, and other Indigenous languages, on the other hand, remain in private spaces. The national curriculum rarely acknowledges them. A language is more than just words; it also embodies every aspect of our heritage. When children grow up without it, they lose not only vocabulary but also the worldview embedded in those sounds.

The third impact is spirituality. Before Christianity and Islam arrived, our ancestors believed in a cosmology that connected people, nature, and the unseen. The adat guided balance and respect. Several elements were based on Hindu-Buddhist beliefs from the Majapahit and Minangkabau traditions, but those influences became uniquely our own, shaped by our environment. If you call these beliefs primitive, you are ignoring how sophisticated they are. Long before the word existed, they taught people about law, ethics, and ecology. The suppression of these systems has shattered more than trust; it has destroyed the bridge between generations.

The last impact lies in invisibility. Bureaucracy rarely speaks the language of the natives. Many still struggle to gain recognition of their customary land rights or even simple documents like birth certificates and identity cards. People who don’t have these papers become ghosts in their own country—unseen in census numbers and uncounted in national decisions.

Taken together, these forces create the silent machinery of cultural genocide. It’s not about individual malice but about a system that values uniformity over diversity and control over respect. When progress is measured only by infrastructure and profit, it becomes a form of forgetting.

I write this not to sow division, but to call for honesty. Respect for Indigenous tribes and their histories is not charity but a moral obligation. When you erase a culture, you do not create unity. You create emptiness. Real harmony happens when differences can exist side by side, without one overtaking the other.

If you have mixed roots and feel like you’re torn between two identities, know this: you’re not a poser. You are the result of two or more heritages coming together. You have the strength of several worlds inside you. You have every right to learn your ancestral language, honor both sides of your heritage, and talk about it with pride. You can still reach your roots and the journey begins with curiosity and grows through community.

And to those who continue to insist that “everyone is Malay,” listen up: you are not defending tradition; you are performing a modern version of the same colonial mindset you claim to oppose. Claiming and renaming others is not leadership. It’s theft. It is a refusal to accept that different roots can live together without merging into one trunk.

The Iban, Bidayuh, Kenyah, Penan, Lun Bawang, Melanau, Kelabit, and countless other groups are not extensions of a larger race. We are nations within a nation, with histories that predate borders. We have our own gods and deities, our own literature, our own rituals and way of life. We don’t need anyone to save us from ourselves.

So take care of your own culture and let us take care of ours. Guard your own identity and let us stay as ourselves. You don’t have to tell us what to believe, how to speak, or how to conduct our affairs. Preserve your own heritage and quit trying to claim ownership of what doesn’t belong to you.

This moment in our history calls for courage. We need courage to listen, fix what has been distorted, and return whatever is rightfully ours. We don’t need anyone’s permission to exist. Even when others pretend to forget, we remember. We will continue to speak, to write, to sing, and to exist in our own rhythm. We are not lesser branches of your tree. We are forests in our own right.

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

Iban Culture | Gawai Antu @ Feast of the Dead – A Personal Journey Through Memory and Meaning

I don’t see a lot of articles anywhere that talk about the culture of my people, the Dayak Iban of Sarawak, Borneo. Maybe there are plenty in native languages, but so far not much is written in English, so I thought instead of lamenting about it, why not write it myself? I admit I don’t have a vast knowledge about my culture; however, it shouldn’t stop me from writing about what I know. In this post I’m going to talk about one aspect of our culture called Gawai Antu, or the Feast of the Dead. I believe the feast of the dead is widely celebrated worldwide across different countries and cultures. It’s no different with the Iban people. After all, who doesn’t want to memorialize and pay tribute to their departed loved ones?

The Iban people of Sarawak, Borneo, have a rich and deeply rooted culture that is shaped by mythology, oral traditions, and a close connection between the spiritual and physical worlds. At the heart of this culture are the many “gawai,” or feasts, that mark important moments in life, from celebrating a bountiful harvest (Gawai Dayak) to honoring the spirits of the departed (Gawai Antu). Each gawai carries its own meaning, traditions, and importance, but none have left a deeper impact on me than Gawai Antu, or the Feast of the Dead.

My father’s longhouse: Ng. Batang, Ulu Krian, Saratok. Image source: Youtube

I was ten years old when I first experienced Gawai Antu at my father’s longhouse in Ng. Batang, Ulu Krian, Saratok. At the time, I didn’t really understand its meaning. I just knew it was a rare and grand occasion that transformed the quiet longhouse into a place of celebration, ritual, and remembrance. Even now, decades later, I can still hear the loud gongs, see the elders in their ceremonial attire, and recall the haunting beauty of the invocations to the spirits and deities. It was a glimpse into something much bigger than myself, which was a connection between the living and the dead. This festival was deeply embedded into the very fabric of our identity.

Unlike Gawai Dayak, which is an annual celebration, Gawai Antu happens once in a generation. It is a collective effort that takes years of preparation, with families saving up to host this event in honor of their ancestors. This isn’t a normal feast. It’s an elaborate feast that symbolizes a final send-off for the souls of the departed. It’s a way of ensuring they are properly honored before moving on to the spirit world. It is both a farewell and a tribute, reinforcing the Iban belief that death is not an end but a transition to another realm.

A “sungkup”. Image source: National Archives of Singapore

As a child, I was captivated by the sights and sounds of the festival. The longhouse came alive with music, laughter, and the smell of traditional food. Thousands of guests from neighboring longhouses (villages) gathered, filling the space with a sense of community and shared purpose. I watched as men skillfully built the “sungkup” (memorial huts) for the deceased, while women wove baskets called “garung” to hold the ceremonial rice wine, “tuak Indai Billai.”

One of the most mesmerizing rituals was “ngalu petara,” where men and women, dressed in their finest, marched through the longhouse to welcome the spirits of the dead. Another unforgettable moment was watching the “lemambang” (bards) chant poetic invocations while carrying bowls of “ai jalung” (special rice wine) from midnight until dawn. Their lyrics, which were passed down through generations, painted vivid images of the spirits’ journey from the afterlife back to their longhouse for one final feast with their loved ones. At 4 a.m., the honored “bujang berani” (men of valor) drank the “ai jalung” to symbolize a moment of pride and recognition.

Image source: My sister

It wasn’t until adulthood that I fully grasped the significance of Gawai Antu. It is a festival of remembrance and a reaffirmation of our roots. It’s a way of keeping our ancestors’ legacies alive. As an Iban living away from my homeland, these memories have become even more precious. They remind me of who I am and where I come from, especially in a world where modern life often pulls us away from traditional practices.

Writing about Gawai Antu feels like my own way of preserving this tradition. In many ways, storytelling serves the same purpose as the rituals. It honors the past by keeping memories alive and strengthening our sense of belonging. But I won’t lie; this responsibility sometimes feels overwhelming. I wonder if my children will ever truly understand the depth of these traditions, or if they will see them as outdated practices of a time long gone. Still, I hold onto hope that through stories, whether in poetry, essays, or simple conversations, I can spark their curiosity and encourage them to explore their roots.

“Bujang Berani”, a man of valor drinking the “ai jalung”. Image source: Gawai Antu documentary

If there is one thing Gawai Antu has taught me, it is the value of memory. In a society that sometimes stresses development over history, this feast is a reminder that our identity is both about who we are and where we came from. Honoring our ancestors involves acknowledging their difficulties, successes, and sacrifices, as well as understanding how they influence our lives now.

Decades after my first Gawai Antu, the memories are still fresh in my mind. The loud gongs, sacred chanting, and communal spirit are memories from my childhood as well as pieces of a greater story about connection, heritage, and meaning. Gawai Antu has taught me that remembering our ancestors means, in many ways, honoring ourselves, as we are the living continuation of their journey.

My poem, “Gawai Antu”.

Note:
A documentary about Gawai Antu was made several years ago, you may watch the trailer here:

I don’t have any photographs of Gawai Antu from my childhood. They are kept safely in my parents’ home in Sarawak. The photographs in this post are credited to the sources listed below each image. For more information on Gawai Antu, you may visit these sites:

The Gawai Antu
Gawai Antu – the documentary