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

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.

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

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.

Sarawak Folk Noir | Red Eyes at the Ara Tree

This story was inspired by a real event, a memory from my childhood. I’ve always loved noir—the sense of dread, the fatalism, the uncertainties, and the things left unsaid. But I couldn’t find any noir stories told in an indigenous voice from Borneo. So I wrote my own. Red Eyes at the Ara Tree is what I call Sarawak folk noir. It carries the core tenets of classic noir: unseen forces, a haunting past, and the slow unraveling of certainty; but roots them in a rural, post-colonial setting where belief and memory still shape the edges of reality. There is no detective here. Just a child, and the adult they become, trying to make sense of what cannot be explained. The crime is an intrusion of something ancient and watching. It’s of the unknown stepping into an ordinary life.

When I was seven years old, we lived on top of a hill in a government housing complex. It was a modest row of boxy flats nestled along the slope, built for civil servants like my dad. Thick jungle pressed in from all sides. People said that years ago, communists camped all over this hill and the jungle beyond it. I guess that rumor was true because one afternoon while I was playing near the black drain, I saw a group of soldiers going down the hill. The town lay below. It was quiet during the day, but after nightfall, it was ghostlike, as if it had shrunk back to the edges of the footpath at night.

My parents kept chickens and grew vegetables like kangkung, changkok, and daun ubi in our small backyard. There was always the smell of dirt, raw chicken feed, and shit in the air. My siblings and I played barefoot in the yard after school, with the red earth staining our soles. Life was simple and boring back then, until it wasn’t.

There was an ara jejawi tree about three hundred meters down the road, on the slope of the hill. People said these trees were old, too old, and not all of them were empty. Spirits dwelt in such trees. They were not necessarily bad, but never to be disturbed. The tree was huge. Its roots stretched over the earth like petrified pythons. In the afternoons, the tree cast wide shadows that spread to the road. Every family on the hill passed it on their way to town. Most of us walked faster around it or crossed to the other side of the road. Some others, like my mom, muttered short prayers.

Our kitchen faced the ara tree. There were two doors at the back. One was a solid wooden door with a metal latch, and the other a lighter screen door made of wood and mesh. We usually left the solid door open so the air could move through, but we kept the screen door closed to keep mosquitoes and flies out. I never gave that door much thought. It was simply part of the kitchen, like the tiled counter or the creaky faucet.

That night, everything was normal. It hadn’t rained for weeks. The heat lingered on your skin long after the sun went down. The cicadas were shrieking in the trees, and the chickens were quiet. We had dinner. My dad was at the head of the table, my mom was next to him, and the rest of us were spread out around the small table. My eldest sister sat right across from the screen door, looking out to the backyard and the ara tree beyond it.

I remember my spoon scraping the bottom of the plate. My mom asked if anyone wanted more sambal belacan. Someone knocked over a cup and somebody wondered out loud who would win the WWE match later tonight. My sister stood up to get another helping of rice.

She paused.

That’s what I remember. Her hand hovered above the rice cooker. Her face had gone still. Almost blank. She didn’t utter a word. She shifted her gaze and quietly scooped her rice and went back to her seat. The conversation went on. None of us noticed anything strange. Not then.

She didn’t say a word until later, when we were in the living room and the dishes were clean. My dad had switched on the TV to watch the evening news and my brothers were bickering about whose armpits stank the most.

She said she had seen eyes. Big, red, staring right at her from the ara tree. Right through the screen door. The eyes didn’t blink or move; they grew. Larger and larger with radial blur around the edges. Even while they stayed still, it appeared like they were getting closer. She swore they pulsed, like slow breathing.

We didn’t speak for a long time after she told us. My mom told her not to bring it up again. That night my dad closed the solid kitchen door and pulled the bolt tighter than usual. No one complained.

The next morning, it was a Tuesday and like any school day, we got up early to go to school. However, my sister complained of feeling chilly, though her skin was hot. My mom instructed her to stay home and prescribed Panadol. By afternoon, her temperature continued to rise. Her brow was sticky with sweat and her eyes couldn’t focus. Her appetite disappeared. She lay curled on her thin foam mattress, sweating and mumbling, eyes drifting in and out of focus. The doctor called it a viral fever and sent her home with Panadol. But after two more days, my parents started asking around and were given a number to contact. He was a manang who lived in a village near the town.

I remember the manang arriving late in the evening, when it was a little cooler. His rusty white Corolla E70 arrived at precisely 7PM. A balding man with two beady eyes emerged from the car. He shook hands with my parents and my dad invited him in. He didn’t say much. He took off his sandals at the door and nodded politely at us. One of my brothers started to point to a strange-looking bag he was carrying on his back. It was an old wooden cylinder bag that looked more like a box—lupong manang, his healing kit. I had never seen one before, but I knew better than to ask.

The manang sat next to my sister and opened his bag. Inside were small vials of various sizes, each one containing suspicious-looking liquid. A smooth stone that sparkled under the light—batu ilau—my mom whispered—and a small bundle of dried plants, a small bowl, and a white armlet. He softly murmured words I couldn’t understand and touched my sister’s forehead.

My parents prepared a piring on a tray with betel nut, leaf, tobacco, glutinous rice, salt, two chicken eggs, and a small glass of tuak. I don’t remember how long he stayed because I fell asleep halfway through the strange healing ritual. But by the next morning, her fever had subsided. It wasn’t completely gone, but it seemed like something had finally released its grasp.

The fever broke after five days. My sister woke up as if from a long dream. She never talked about the eyes anymore and refused to sit in that chair again. No one wanted to sit at that chair so we ended up squeezing on one side of the table, our elbows touching as we scooped food into our mouths. And after that, every time we drove by the ara tree in dad’s mung bean green Datsun, she would look at the miding sprouting above the bush along the road and never ahead.

After all these decades, it’s likely that the tree is still standing. I never returned to that town, though my siblings had visited on their various work trips. None of them bother to check on our old neighborhood or the ara tree. The last time I looked on Google Maps, the area had been cleared and developed. More houses and buildings. The surrounding jungle is still there, but less menacing, somehow tamed. Even now, as an adult, I don’t try to explain it away. Maybe the fever would’ve broken on its own. Maybe the manang did nothing at all. But something changed that week—and I’ve never looked at shadows the same since.

Whether the tree still stands or not, in my memory it always does. It stands motionless with its thick trunks and aerial roots guarding its inhabitant.

Watching. Waiting.

Note:

Kangkung – water spinach
Changkok – pucuk manis (popular leafy vegetable native to Southeast Asia
Daun ubi – cassava leaves
Ara jejawi – banyan tree
Sambal belacan – shrimp paste
Manang – shaman
Lupong manang – shaman healing/medicine kit
Batu ilau – divining stone used by Iban shamans during healing rituals.
Piring – offering
Tuak – rice wine
Miding – a type of fern, Stenochlaena palustris, a popular edible plant in Malaysia and other Southeast Asian countries.

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.

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.

The Ritual of Water | An Iban Ceremony for New Life

Last weekend, I found myself standing knee-deep in a shallow river in Janda Baik. The sunlight came through a canopy of trees above, casting soft streaks of light on the water’s surface. Everything felt quiet and peaceful. My kids splashed further upstream, and their laughter echoed off of rocks and trees. I stood still, closed my eyes, and let the water swirl around my legs as it flowed downstream.

It reminded me of the Iban traditional child-naming ritual. I’ve never seen it with my own eyes, but I learned about it from the elders and through reading. This ritual was held following the naming of the child and to formally “introduce” the child to the river.

In the Iban way of life, water is more than a physical element. A body of water like a river is also a spiritual space. It gives life, but it is also a source of danger. We wash with water from the river, and sometimes, when the water is clear, we even drink and cook with it. It carries our boats to other villages, fields, and faraway places. However, it’s also where crocodiles and other dangers live. No Iban has grown up without hearing stories about someone who was attacked at the river. When a child is born, we don’t just give them a bath. We also hold a ritual to beg the river not to harm them.

After the child is named, the bathing ritual begins. The night before the ceremony, the father informs the longhouse community of his intention. At dawn the next morning, the whole longhouse community walks to the river in a solemn procession. A flag bearer is at the front, and a man carrying a fowl follows him. Both of these men are chosen from among the respected elders. Two women walk behind them. One carries offerings and the other carries the child wrapped in handwoven pua kumbu. The rest follow, beating the gongs as they walk.

At the riverbank, the flag bearer cuts the water with a knife. The man with the fowl recites an invocation to call upon the spirits of water, earth, sky, and all the creatures that swim below the surface. He asks that the child be given good fortune, sharp vision, and safety. He calls the crocodile, the soft-shelled turtle, the barbus fish, the semah, and the tapah. He calls each one by name and tells them to regard this child as family, not food. He says,

“If this son or grandson of ours happens to capsize and sink while he is visiting, you are the only ones who can lift him up and keep him afloat.”

It is not a metaphor but a real request, born out of fear and hope.

After the invocation, the child is bathed and the fowl is slaughtered. People make noise on purpose, like banging gongs and laughing, to drown out any bad omens. If the child is a boy, one wing of the bird is tied to a spear with red ribbon. The wing is attached to a heddle rod if it’s a girl. A bamboo basket full of offerings is then hung from a leafy pole.

After that, they return to the longhouse and sprinkle the child with sacred water to get rid of bad omens. A feast is held and the gongs ring out to mark the ritual’s success. The child is now considered truly part of the community, and both the people and the river know it.

As I stood in that river at Janda Baik, I began to think about the rituals we’ve forgotten. What would it mean to reclaim a gesture like this, perhaps not literally but in spirit? The Ibans don’t all live in longhouses anymore. Some of us reside in cities and raise our kids as urbanites, but water still calls us. Maybe part of why we seek places like Janda Baik is because something in us still longs to make peace with the river. Rivers still take us places. They still give and take. And we too are still vulnerable to things we can’t see.

Maybe modern mothers need more moments like this, when they can recognize their fears, their prayers, and their desire to protect the people they love. We might not need to cut the water with a knife, but we can still offer a prayer, still whisper a blessing:

“We beseech you to confer on him fortune, give him sharp vision so that he will be fortunate, wealthy, and blessed with good health throughout his life.

We can still speak to the river, and certainly we can still be heard.

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

My Ancestor | OKP Dana Bayang the Great Iban Headhunter & War Leader of Borneo

“The Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang of Saribas is now with me…the dreaded and the brave, as he is termed by the natives. He is small, plain-looking and old, with his left arm disabled, and his body scarred with spear wounds. I do not dislike the look of him, and of all chiefs’ of that river I believe he is the most honest and steers his course straight enough.”

— James Brooke, The White Rajah’s Diary, 1843

When I saw this prompt, I didn’t think twice. My favorite historical figure isn’t from faraway lands or great empires. He is my ancestor, Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang (or Dana Bayang), the legendary Iban war leader of the early 19th century.

Dana Bayang was from Padeh, a longhouse upriver in the Saribas. In addition to his prowess in battle, he was renowned for his ability to guide his people wisely at a period when preserving their way of life from both local and foreign dangers was essential to their survival. His warriors, loyal and fearless, served as the first line of defense. Among them was Sabok Gila Berani, his right-hand man who eventually established our longhouse (village), Stambak Ulu. Stambak Ulu was a strategic sentinel, not just a village. It sat along the river, watching for enemy warships approaching up the Layar. From there, word could be quickly transmitted upriver to alert Dana Bayang in Padeh. Stambak Ulu became a shield, protecting Dana’s people and territory.

Years later, Sabok’s son Mang adopted Dana’s granddaughter, Mindu—my great-great-grandmother—after her father, Aji, Dana’s successor, was defeated by Charles Brooke’s forces in 1858. Aji’s death was a turning point, as the old ways clashed with colonial ambition. Mindu’s mother, Dimah, died soon after, leaving her an orphan.

When I think of Dana Bayang, I think of courage that was not for glory but for the preservation of a way of life, of the land, spirits, and community. His sons and warriors fought to keep their people free, to defend their beliefs, customs, and homeland. Nonetheless, they stood on the edge of change as the White Rajah’s army (colonialism) drove into Sarawak’s heart. The story of Dana and his warriors reminds me of what it means to belong to a people who refused to give up, who carried defiance and hope in equal measure.

You can even catch a glimpse of Dana Bayang in the 2021 Hollywood film Edge of the World, which offers a sneak peek of Brooke’s voyage of discovery to Sarawak in the 1800s.

This reflection ties closely to something I wrote earlier: Inheriting Courage From My Warrior Ancestors. The courage I speak of is not just in legends; it lives in the bloodline, in memory, in the quiet resistance of holding onto who we are.

A Chieftain’s Lament

Between the ritual’s demand and the crown’s decree
my once-steady hands falter in silence.
The nyabur rusts in my palm,
steel thirsting for blood,
now hushed by law.
The earth splits open—
Brooke’s foreign feet press into its cracks.

I hear signs, I dream dreams.
We need fertile grounds.
Blood must avenge blood.
But Brooke tells me to sheath my hunger,
swallow the sun, unlearn the hunt.
He asks me to bow, to bury my blade—
yet the wind whispers of battles still untold.

A fire stirs in the pit of my chest,
a pact with shadows, ancestors long gone.
Can we silence our spirits, break our bond?
Or will the old gods rise in the dust of our revolt?
I smell old skin burning,
the wild call of crows—
but I am chained to the unseen leash of kings
who promise peace with chains.

Note:
Nyabur – curved sword from Borneo, a headhunter’s weapon

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Nights Beneath the Mosquito Net

It’s a memory so soft, so far away, it almost feels like I dreamed it. But it was real.

I was ten, maybe eleven. We were back at the longhouse, in our bilik, the apartment that was our family’s space within the longhouse. There were no bedrooms, no separate rooms. Just us, rolling out our mats, hanging mosquito nets, settling down for the night. There was no electricity then, so nights came early. A single oil lamp flickered in the middle of the room, casting shadows that danced along the wooden walls.

And this was when my grandmother would start telling her stories.

She didn’t sit up to tell them. She lay down, just as we did, her voice weaving through the silence. She spoke of people she had known, incidents long past, things that had happened when the world was younger. Her words filled the dark, mingling with the sounds of the jungle outside. We’d listen as sleep slowly pulled us under, her voice becoming part of our dreams.

I don’t remember the details of her stories. Decades have passed. But I remember the feeling. The peace. The comfort. The sense of being anchored to something larger, older, gentler.

Sometimes I wonder if my children will ever have moments like that. Moments where stories are not read from books or screens but spoken softly in the dark, meant only for their ears.

That memory, fragile as it is, is one of my favorites. Because in that moment, I felt safe. I felt home.

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