The Cry of the Koklir | An Iban Ghost Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First Encounter

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

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

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

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

“Kok… kok… kok…”

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

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

Then, around 7PM, I heard it again.

“Kok… kok… kok… kok…”

It was slower and closer.

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

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

Second Encounter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Flash Fiction | Before the Sun Takes Me

The night sky stretched out like a thick dark veil that would never end. The stars blinked, their usual brightness faded, seemingly taking the brunt of the choice I had to make. My warriors remained silent. Their eyes were full of trust in me. And yet, my heart roared with doubt.

The dream from the night before clung to me like a second skin. Kumang had appeared. Her face sorrowful and her voice clear: “Do not strike at dawn. To do so would mean your death.”

I was raised to heed such signs. Dreams are not dismissed in our way of life. They come from the realm above the sky, Panggau Libau and Gelong, where spirits still keep watch and gods whisper their warnings to those willing to listen.

But how could I pause now? I am Aji Apai Limpa, son of Dana Bayang. I carry the weight of my lineage and the blood of warriors. I have a duty to protect our land from those orang putih who pretend to come in peace but seek to conquer it. The White Rajah’s men moved through our rivers and jungles like relentless mold beneath the rotten bark. I had promised my people to fight back.

Doubt wound around me like a snake, growing tighter with each passing second. I thought about each consequence carefully. If I held back, people might think I was weak and couldn’t handle the challenges of war. And yet, to march forward meant possibly embracing the death that Kumang had warned me of. It’s not just my life but the lives of those who depended on me for safety.

The fire beside me crackled softly, radiating out small bursts of warmth that couldn’t reach the cold in my bones. I thought of my father and the things he taught me. I could almost hear his voice now. “Son, a leader’s strength isn’t measured by how loud he yells or how many people he kills, but by how deeply he listens to the land and the spirits.”

There was only silence tonight.

I stared into the embers and saw our longhouse. The ruai filled with children’s laughter. I saw the old ones with rheumy eyes by the bedilang, telling stories even as war crept closer. I saw my people, worn out and wounded but still holding on. Could I really ask them to wait and trust in the dreams and omens that only I heard and saw?

I thought of Kumang’s face again. Her expression softened and a gentle acceptance shone in her eyes. Was she trying to test me? Did she see the path that I couldn’t? Or was this simply the fate of every leader to make choices in the shadows?

I looked to the heavens for answers but none came. There was only an unrelenting silence. The river sprang to mind. It doesn’t resist the earth but bends and curves, following the land it loves. Maybe this was the lesson Kumang wanted to teach me. Sometimes strength is not found in striking but in knowing when not to.

Still, I couldn’t look away from what the morning would bring. I couldn’t stop seeing flames that had burned our longhouses and fields. I’m haunted by the blood and the lifeless bodies of my warriors. I couldn’t ask my warriors to retreat into silence when everything within them was ready to rise.

I gripped my sangkuh, finding strength on its solid surface. Death is never far from a warrior. If Kumang’s vision was true, my demise awaited me at daybreak. But what about it? My life has never been mine alone. It belongs to this land, the spirits, and the people who look to me for courage.

Still, doubt gnawed at me. Would my death make any difference? Would it make my men fight harder, or would it break their spirits, making them vulnerable to the enemy’s advances? Such questions couldn’t be answered tonight.

I closed my eyes and prayed for the strength to choose. I got up when the horizon began to pale with the morning sun. My men stirred and looked at me. No one said a word. They only waited for my voice.

I took a deep breath, letting the air of our land fill me one last time.

“Kitai mupuk udah makai pagi,” I said. The words tasted bitter. It carried the sorrow of defying a goddess. But these words were mine and the resolve of a man who had chosen.

I looked up at the sky one more time as the warriors were getting their weapons ready. I half-expected to see Kumang’s face among the clouds. But there was only the rising sun shining over the land I loved.

I would meet it standing, no matter if it marked my beginning or my end.

Footnote:

This flash fiction is inspired by the life of my great-great-great-grandfather, Aji Apai Limpa, a well-known war leader of the Iban people of Borneo in the mid-nineteenth century. From 1854 to 1858, Aji commanded his warriors in resistance to the White Rajah’s forces. He died in a fierce battle at Sg. Langit (Langit River) in 1858. Aji’s courage and valor have been immortalized in Iban poetry, which is passed down through generations by bards.

The Iban people of Borneo were traditionally animists, believing that spirits, animals, nature, and other aspects of the earth are living and interrelated. Even though most Ibans are now Christians or Muslims, animist ideas are still very much a part of our traditional beliefs and customs. One of these traditions is augury, which is the practice of interpreting god’s signs based on the behavior of certain birds that are thought to be divine messengers. Along with dream interpretation, augury is an important part of Iban divination. These practices are based on a way of thinking that sees the sacred in nature and gives guidance and warnings to those who can read its signs.

Translation of Iban words

Ruai: the communal open area or covered verandah that runs along the length of a traditional longhouse.
Bedilang – hearth
Sangkuh – spear
“Kitai mupuk udah makai pagi” – we make a move after breakfast
Kumang – a supreme goddess of the Iban from the realm above the sky, Panggau Libau and Gelong
Orang putih – white men

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.

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