We Don’t Grow Alone | A Lesson from Arashiyama

As I walked toward the bamboo grove, the morning air in Arashiyama was cool against my skin. At forty-nine, I have learned to cherish these quiet hours before the world awakens. I had risen before dawn, leaving my hotel while Kyoto still slept, hoping to find that peace between sleep and waking where the spirit feels most alive.

I am Iban, born in Sarawak, though I have lived away from my homeland for more years than I care to count. My journey has taken me far from my roots. I came to Kyoto for a brief getaway and to seek an elusive urging, perhaps a reminder that I am still connected to something larger than myself.

As I entered the grove, the first thing I noticed was the silence. Then the wind stirred. The rustling of the bamboo stalks, creaking and clicking against one another, filled the air with a sound so distinctive that the Japanese government has named it one of the “100 Soundscapes of Japan.” To me, it sounded like a longhouse at dusk, a murmur of voices blending into one.

The Moso bamboo rose around me, some stalks reaching sixteen meters toward the sky. I walked slowly along the Chikurin-no-Komichi, the main path that runs for five hundred meters through the forest. The morning light filtered through the canopy, casting pale green shadows on the ground. I stopped and placed my palm against one of the stalks. It was cool and smooth, surprisingly solid for something that grows so tall and bends so easily in the wind.

This is when I remembered what my cousin in Kuching shared with me last year, the Iban traditional concept about the “bungai”. She had written to me about the bungai, a plant-image that lives in the invisible world of Manang Menjaya, the Iban god of healing. According to Iban traditional belief, each person has a bungai that takes the form of bamboo, growing in clumps from a single rootstock. The bungai grows, strengthens, weakens, dies, and falls, just as a person does.

Standing in that grove, surrounded by thousands of stalks rising from what I knew must be a shared underground network of roots, I understood this more clearly than before. The bamboo does not grow alone. Each shoot is part of a “pumpun”, a clump. Every stalk has its own height, direction, and shape. They all draw from the same roots and source. No one grows alone.

I thought of my own bungai, wherever it grows in the cosmic garden of Manang Menjaya. I imagined it as bamboo, tall, flexible, rooted in the same clump as my mother and my relatives who still live in the longhouse by the Layar River. For years I felt out of place, as if I were growing away from where I began. I left Sarawak for school, then for work and marriage. I felt disconnected, as though my stalk had been cut from the clump and planted somewhere it did not belong.

The bamboo shifted that understanding. Walking through that grove, I realized that the rootstock never disappears. The connection endures, no matter the distance. The clump remains, hidden but flourishing. My bungai is still there, nurtured by the unseen garden, sustained by the same roots that support my kin. Though I’ve been gone for years, the lineage continues.

I kept walking, finally arriving at the Nonomiya Shrine, a modest Shinto shrine tucked away in the grove. I stopped, feeling the familiar stirrings within me. Our ancestors recognized this pattern clearly when they chose bamboo for the bungai. These plants grow in clumps. They survive storms by bending rather than breaking. They send up new shoots even after the old ones fall. The Iban watched this pattern daily, living close to the land, and they recognized it as a mirror of human life.

This is how my people once understood family and community. A family is one clump. A longhouse community is many clumps standing together, sharing the same ground. The well-being of one shoot affects the whole. When someone is sick, the bungai weakens. When someone wanders, it withers. When someone dies, it falls, but the clump remains, ready to push new growth upward for the next generation.

I thought of my own children, born in a place far from Sarawak. They have never lived in a longhouse. They do not speak Iban beyond a few words. For years I worried that the connection had been broken. Standing in that grove, watching the morning light shift through the bamboo, I understood that the rootstock never disappears. My children are new shoots from an old clump. They may grow in different soil, but they draw from the same source.

The grove has two paths. I walked both that morning, the famous Chikurin-no-Komichi and the newer Bamboo Forest Trail opened in 2015. The wider path was easier for walking, but I preferred the older one, where the stalks grow closer together, where the sense of bepumpun is strongest. I stayed until the crowds began to arrive, tourists with phones raised, their voices breaking the silence. I did not resent them. They were seeking something too. Perhaps they were looking for beauty, peace, or a moment of connection in a world that increasingly isolates us.

As I walked toward the exit, I passed a sign noting that the bamboo forest is open 24 hours a day and has no entrance fee. I smiled. You cannot charge admission to a teaching that has been offered freely since before humans built temples or paved paths.

Before leaving, I visited the Okochi-Sanso Garden at the far end of the grove. The admission fee included matcha tea and a sweet, and I sat on a bench overlooking Kyoto, sipping the bitter tea and watching the city spread out below me. I thought again about the bungai and what it offers us today. Many of us live far from home. Some grow up with mixed heritage, navigating several identities at once. Some have lost their language, their land, and their connection to family history. The bungai shows that belonging extends beyond physical closeness. It rests in memory, lineage, and the ties that remain.

The forest had shown me that I cannot survive alone. Bamboo stands because the clump stands. A community endures because its roots are strong. Long before the words “ecology” or “sustainability” were used, our ancestors knew this concept. They practiced it when they built longhouses, shared food, and worked the land. Their lives were intertwined with nature and community that supported each other. The bamboo reminded me of what I had forgotten: we are not alone. We grow in clumps, we sway together when the storm comes, and we push up fresh growth from roots that have endured for ages.

I left Arashiyama that morning with a clearer understanding. I am still a shoot from the old clump. The rootstock holds. The bungai grows, even when I cannot see it. I am connected to those who came before me and those who will come after. No matter how far I travel, my roots are in the garden of Manang Menjaya, where our lives rise from the same source and intertwine across generations.

This post is extracted from my journal entry

Note: Moso bamboos are running bamboos, but they have similar root systems to clump bamboos.

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.

Atsuko Watanabe and the Complications of Simple Living

In a previous post called The Essence of a Smaller Life, I wrote about reading Andy Couturier’s The Abundance of Less and how I became interested in the quiet lives of the people he profiles. The book talks about people in rural Japan who have chosen to live outside of the fast pace and high expectations of modern economic life. Their stories describe lives with less stress, fewer goals, and more focus on the rhythms of daily life.

But as I kept reading, one chapter triggered me in ways I didn’t expect. It was the chapter about Atsuko Watanabe, an environmental activist whose views on success, recognition, and the purpose of life challenged me rather than inspired me. At one point in the interview, she says that becoming famous, making money from painting (art), or winning prizes is not worth anything. She says that life isn’t about worrying about what other people think of you. The statement stuck with me.

It sounded absolute and almost dismissive. But I also reminded myself that the interview took place in the 1990s, long before the internet and social media changed how recognition and visibility operate today. The first edition of The Abundance of Less came out in 2010, and the second edition came out in 2017. Reading her words decades later offers a fresh perspective on their impact.

Watanabe’s philosophy is clear. She doesn’t believe in the common measures of success, like getting awards, being popular, and having financial achievement. Instead, she organizes her life around activism, getting involved in her community, and living by ethical standards. I admit that her choice demonstrates integrity; however, living by principles instead of seeking social rewards requires faith or strong conviction.

Even though I disagree with some of the things she said, I could relate to her desire for time to reflect, read, learn, and make art. Those are values that are important to me. I also found myself admiring another aspect of her life. As a Catholic living in rural Japan, Watanabe chose a spiritual path that was uncommon in her surroundings. It takes courage to have that kind of belief. It reminded me of my own complicated relationship with faith as an Iban, even though my path has gone in the opposite direction. But I couldn’t help but push back against the moral certainty in what she said.

From where I stand today, living in a modern city, I see that being part of the larger economy doesn’t always mean wanting to pursue fame or recognition. For a vast majority of people, it’s just the way things are to make a living. Families have to pay off mortgages, debts, and other obligations. Not everything you work on is about getting ahead or improving social standing. A lot of the time, it’s just how we support the people under our care.

Downtown Kuala Lumpur. A daily view for those who work in the city center. Photo taken inside my car heading towards KLCC.

When someone says that fame or recognition is meaningless, it can sound like they are judging people who live differently. A lot of people are just trying to make sense of the situations they have inherited. This chapter also made me think about the bigger idea of “simple living.”

For me, simplicity is not an abstract idea. I am Iban, and many Ibans in Borneo still maintain connections to communal life in longhouses. These communities are often in the rural areas, reachable by rivers, logging roads, or modern roads. Life there is closely tied to the land. People get their food from nature by planting rice, fishing in nearby rivers, and hunting in the jungle. For someone who lives in a city, that way of life might seem peaceful and romantic. It looks like the embodiment of simplicity. But simplicity in that context isn’t necessarily easy.

Early morning mist at my family longhouse in Sarawak, Borneo.

Planting rice under the blazing sun demands grueling physical effort. Hunting and fishing, too, come with their set of risks. In some rivers, crocodiles aren’t baseless rumors; they’re genuine threats. Jungles can harbor venomous snakes and other dangerous creatures. Living in a longhouse requires strength, teamwork, grit, and resilience. While many consider it a fulfilling way of life, it’s not something one casually adopts because it seems attractive.

You see, living simply isn’t always simple at all. It requires particular conditions like having access to land, strong ties to the community, and willingness to endure hardship and inconvenience. The philosophy can be difficult to follow, and sometimes even impossible, without those conditions.

In one way, I agree with Watanabe. She says that this kind of life might be good for someone who doesn’t mind being inconvenienced. There is truth in that observation. Living closer to the land often means accepting limits that modern city life tries to eliminate.

What makes me hesitate is the moral certainty that sometimes comes with these ideals. When simplicity is seen as the best way to live, it ignores the things that affect other people’s choices. When someone has already left the systems that make those goals necessary for others, it’s easy to reject recognition and material success. Many people are not chasing fame or recognition. They are simply doing their best to meet the responsibilities of their lives.

I doubt that simplicity is something that only exists in rural areas or outside of modern systems. I see it as something more personal and not necessarily needing to be away from our current situation. It is how we decide what is worth our time. It is also how we keep our lives from getting too complex and beyond control and how we stay connected to what matters even when we are stuck in places we can’t easily escape. I personally believe that simplicity today doesn’t mean completely shutting yourself off from the modern world and figuring out how to live with purpose in it.

The Tale of Endu Engkejemu and Endu Engkejuang

This is an Iban folktale I grew up with. I translated this old Iban folktale in my pursuit to preserve the Iban oral literature in my own little way. The Iban version is available online, but as far as I know, no English translation has been made. I translated this in hope I can share my obscure culture with the world. I didn’t profit from this work, and I plan to translate more stories in the future and make them available on this blog. This is the story of two women, one patient and one impulsive, and how their choices led them down very different paths.

Long ago, in a place called Lubok Meram, near Lansar Kerangan Betumpu Man and Rantau Rutan, the sacred domain of Raja Ganali (King Ganali) and Bunsu Ikan, the fish god – there lived two young women named Endu Engkejemu and Endu Engkejuang.

Both were beautiful, but Endu Engkejemu’s beauty stood out. She was graceful and brilliant. Aside from her beauty, she was wise, skilled, and thoughtful. Her calmness and ability to do things well were her strengths. Endu Engkejuang, on the other hand, was full of life and quick-tongued. She was usually the first to welcome guests and try new things. She hated being second, but her impatience showed in the fact that she didn’t always do things right. For her, how quickly something was completed was more important than the quality.

One day, as they were bathing at the river, Endu Engkejuang admired her friend’s long, beautiful hair and asked, “Wai (dear), your hair is so lovely. What’s your secret?”

Endu Engkejemu replied, “Eh, no secret, wai sulu (dear friend). I just use tilan fish bones to comb my hair.”

That evening, Endu Engkejuang found a tilan fish bone and combed her hair while chanting, “Comb my hair, oh tilan fish bones, comb it to the very end.”

But she had not spoken the request properly. The bones obeyed her words exactly, and by the time they finished, she was completely bald! Crying, she ran to Endu Engkejemu for help. Her friend gently explained, “You must ask kindly. Say, “Oh, bones of the tilan, I ask you to comb my hair well so it will grow long and thick.”

Endu Engkejuang followed her advice, and slowly, her hair began to grow again.

Not long after that, Endu Engkejuang saw a handsome man sitting at Endu Engkejemu’s ruai, the communal space of the longhouse. Curious, she rushed to her friend and asked, “Wai, who is that handsome man?”

“He appeared after I pounded some rangan lime leaves,” Endu Engkejemu replied.

Without hesitation, Endu Engkejuang gathered some leaves but picked them carelessly, including old and rotten ones. She pounded them, hoping to summon someone like the man her friend had met. Instead, an old, wrinkled, and scarred man with warts appeared!

Horrified, she ran to her friend again. “Why is yours so handsome and mine so ugly?”

Endu Engkejemu answered simply, “Because you didn’t choose the leaves properly. Only pick the young and nicest leaves. Good things come from good intentions, wai.”

Later, while working in the paddy fields, the two friends were swarmed by mosquitoes. Irritated, Endu Engkejemu said aloud, “There are so many of you! If you love me so much, why not take me as your wife?”

To her surprise, the mosquitoes lifted her gently and carried her to Raja Nyamok, the Mosquito King. There, she became his wife.

Life in the mosquito kingdom was difficult. The mosquitoes fed on blood, and Endu Engkejemu could not eat what they ate. But she never complained. She continued to treat her husband with kindness and respect, even though she was silently suffering.

Eventually, she pretended to be ill. Raja Nyamok, concerned, summoned a manang (shaman) to heal her, but she only became worse. Finally, she pretended to die.

Heartbroken, Raja Nyamok arranged a grand funeral for her. He ordered her body to be placed on a high altar, as was the custom for royal family members. He provided her with new clothes, jars, traditional musical instruments like setawak, dumbak, bendai, menyarai, engkerumong, and gong. There were many other valuable items to accompany her in the afterlife.

When the mourners returned home, Endu Engkejemu quietly unwrapped herself and took everything back with her to her longhouse. Her return amazed everyone. No one could believe what she had brought home.

Endu Engkejuang heard that she was back and she was filled with burning envy. Determined not to be left behind, she hastily went to the paddy fields and let herself be bitten by the swarming mosquitoes. “Take me as your wife if you want me so badly!” she yelled.

The mosquitoes carried her to Raja Nyamok, who accepted her as his wife. But unlike Endu Engkejemu, Endu Engkejuang couldn’t hide her disgust. At the sight of blood everywhere, she whined and complained, “My father never raised me to drink blood like this. I could never be married to someone like you!”

Insulted, Raja Nyamok declared, “You have humiliated me in front of my people and insulted our food and our way of life.”

He ordered his followers to tie her hands and feet and leave her in a part of the jungle where no one would find her. Alone in the middle of the jungle and covered in bruises and mosquito bites, Endu Engkejuang eventually freed herself and stumbled back to her longhouse.

Her family was shocked to see her when she arrived. She looked terrible: her face was swollen, her clothes were ripped, and she was crying pitifully.

Endu Engkejemu, on the other hand, lived on with quiet dignity. Her story, which has been passed down through the generations, reminded everyone that being wise, patient, humble, and caring pays off, while being envious, petty, and rushing often leads to disaster.

Note:

I translated and adapted this story into Malay (shared on Threads) and English (here on my blog), based on the version originally shared by Gregory Nyanggau Mawar on the Iban Cultural Heritage website.

Marriage Traditions of the Iban of Sarawak, Borneo

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

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

Image source

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

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

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

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

“We, therefore, have been sitting next to each other.
I would like to ask,
Which one of you is the mother of the hornbill?
For I am about to ask you to spit out the seeds of the belili tree,
In order that they can be picked up by a tall, unmarried lady,
So that they can be turned into the tusks of a pig,
As charms for the unripe ears left till the last in reaping,
With which we fill our padi bins.”
Poem source

These exchanges were rich in metaphor and eloquence. The poetic recitations continued throughout the ceremony, including a betusut (genealogical recitation) by an expert who detailed the bride and groom’s genealogy. This ritual not only validated the union but also ensured that the marriage respected cultural taboos and norms in order to avoid misfortune.

Image source

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

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

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

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

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

Modern Iban wedding. Image source.

Inheriting Courage From My Warrior Ancestors

When I close my eyes, memories rise like smoke from a dying fire. I can still hear the gendang’s beating and my family’s joyful chatter from Gawai. I was ten years old and surrounded by the warmth of my people. The elders shared stories of our ancestors—Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang, Aji Apai Limpa, and Nakhoda Panglima Budin Gerasi—all courageous warriors of great renown. That courage, I’ve been told, is in my blood. But what does that mean in a place so far removed from their reality?

I’ve recently been reading Xiaolu Guo’s Nine Continents: A Memoir In and Out of China. Her exploration of identity, displacement, and cultural heritage resonates deeply with me. Xiaolu often addresses issues of alienation and belonging in her works, and she has become one of my favorite authors. Her writing inspired me to think about my own journey, which led me to write this post.

Our Warrior Culture

The Iban were famed for their warrior culture, defined by war expeditions and headhunting. It was once an important aspect of our spiritual beliefs and society framework. To be Iban means to be a warrior. Headhunting was not a barbaric pastime, as outsiders may believe. It was a necessary way of life since it signified protection, honor, and a connection to the spirit realm. While the act itself faded into history, the essence of the courage has been passed down through generations.

I often asked myself, “What remains of the warrior spirit?”. Sometimes it feels like a quiet force pushing me forward. In moments of difficulty, I draw on the courageous spirit of my ancestors. Their legacy reminds me that I have the strength to persevere in the face of overwhelming odds. Perhaps it is genetic memory, the invisible link that ties me to my ancestors and passes down the legacy of courage across generations.

The Loss of Tradition

However, bravery alone cannot fill the gaps. Living in urban places like Kuala Lumpur has distanced me from the traditions that constitute my identity. When my extended family embraced Christianity in the 1950s, it marked a shift from animistic beliefs. Urban living also entails replacing the communal life of the longhouse. Many other aspects of our culture are disappearing, such as the extensive oral poetry tradition.

I am caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, I value the opportunities and conveniences of modern living. On the other hand, I mourn the loss of vibrant traditions that shaped our way of life. These losses make me wonder how we can honor the past while embracing the present.

Image source The late Temenggong Koh (left), one of the last Iban warleaders of the 20th century, before headhunting was completely outlawed by the British colony.

The Sense of Alienation

Life in the city often exacerbates this disconnection. Here, I am just a fragment of an Iban: a name that suggests a foreign land, a face that others might find unfamiliar. When people ask where I’m from, my responses may seem inadequate. How can I explain a longhouse? Or, even if I can explain it, how do I dispel their misconception that modern Ibans still live on trees and wear loincloths? How can I explain our different Gawai, or traditional festivals, when they typically only celebrate one or two holidays, like Eid or Lunar New Year? However, in the heart of this alienation, I’ve realized that identity is not static. It is a fluid interplay of past and present, shaped by our decisions and circumstances.

Strength Through Cultural Roots

Nonetheless, I remain connected to my roots. They are not always visible, but they are present. My ancestors’ courage motivates me to face my fears and embrace the unknown. The warrior spirit is not a relic from the past but rather a driving force in my life today.

During difficult times, I found myself returning to the stories of my ancestors. They endured jungles, battles, and scarcity. I remind myself of their tenacity—if they can endure, so can I.

The loud proclamation of success does not equate to strength. Perseverance and the ability to adapt without forgetting are qualities that define strength. The warrior spirit is about enduring in a world that often forces us to forget who we are.

Preserving Tradition

My original poem from Sarawak collection of poetry

Poetry has been one way for me to preserve my culture. Writing has become a means of connecting the past and present, who I was and who I am becoming. It allows me to hold onto what feels like it’s slipping away.

I aspire to one day publish my poems and leave a legacy for my children. When the time comes for them to discover their roots, I hope my words will serve as a guide, helping them understand who they are and where they came from. Writing allows me to keep the stories alive as the world around us changes.

My identity is a patchwork of memories, stories, and dreams. I am neither fully of the past nor fully of the present. But maybe that’s what it means to be Iban today: to walk on a bridge, perpetually caught between two realities.

I am part of something bigger than myself, a heritage of power, fortitude, and endurance. While I may live far away from my people’s homeland, the essence of my heritage lives on, molding my journey and grounding me in a world that is often divided.

I carry the warrior spirit with me because I am descended from people who endured. So I take a step forward, not knowing where the journey will take me, but knowing it is worthwhile. Like the warrior spirit that runs through my blood, this journey is not always easy, but it is always worth it.

My cousin’s traditional wedding.