Tag: indigenous

What Beserara’ Bungai Taught Me About Letting Go

I used to think that rituals like beserara’ bungai were just old traditions that had no place in today’s world. Growing up, I believed they belonged to the past. I thought the Iban needed to leave them behind to move forward. Whenever elders talked about these beliefs, I felt restless. My world revolved around progress, education, and the principles of organized religion. I didn’t see the value of rituals, and I never took the time to understand what they really meant.

That mindset began to shift—slowly at first, then more clearly—as I read more about the Iban worldview. It wasn’t emotion or nostalgia that changed me, but understanding. I began to see that the Iban learned about life by watching the natural world. They noticed patterns in nature and connected them to how we live. For example, they saw how bamboo and banana plants grow in clusters. Each shoot is part of a single root system underground. If one shoot is unhealthy, it affects the others. When one dies, the root still supports new life. Death was not an ending but part of the cycle. This wasn’t superstition, but wisdom based on careful observation.

The bungai, the “plant-image” that represents each Iban person in the cosmic realm of Menjaya (the god of healing), began to make sense to me. I understood how it symbolized family and community. Each person is like a shoot, but we all come from the same root. When someone passes, the rest carry on, still connected. New life can grow from the same source. It’s a way of seeing life that is deeply connected and respectful of nature. The ancestors weren’t imagining things—they were describing the interconnected world they knew.

As I learned more, I started to feel a quiet pride in where I come from. I discovered that my ancestors included warriors and raja berani, people whose stories are still told in my family. I began to understand that even though I live far from my homeland, I am still part of that root system. This connection also extends to my children. They may not know all the customs or speak the language well, but the roots are still there. They are part of something that has been passed down through generations.

When I learned about beserara’ bungai, the ritual that separates the living from the dead, I felt something shift in me. This ritual is about care—not forgetting what we have lost. It helps both the living and the dead let go so they don’t hold each other back. The living need to keep moving forward, and the dead need peace on their journey to Sebayan. It’s a ritual of compassion that affirms the connection with the dead even as they journey on to the otherworld.

This understanding arrived at a time when I was wrestling with my own spiritual ties. I had been part of the same church community for many years. It shaped how I saw God, faith, and morality. But as I grew older, those teachings started to feel burdensome. I found myself questioning doctrines that encouraged separation from people who did not meet certain standards of spirituality. I began noticing the tension between fear-based expectations and the compassion-centered teachings of Jesus in the Gospels. As I continued to question, the burden of belonging to a system that no longer aligned with my conscience intensified.

Learning about beserara’ bungai gave me words for what I was feeling. I realized I was trying to protect my spirit. I wasn’t leaving faith behind—I was returning to what felt true. Jesus became the real rootstock. I wanted a faith grounded in his teachings: kindness, justice, presence, love, and compassion—not fear or guilt. I needed space to grow without feeling judged by a community that often equated questions with spiritual instability.

In a way, I’m experiencing my own kind of separation from the church rootstock. It is not a rejection of my past or of the people who have been a huge part of my life for the past two decades. It is a necessary separation so I can continue growing without feeling suffocated by expectations that no longer fit the life I am trying to build. I’m holding onto what still nourishes me and letting go of what drains me. The Iban worldview helped me understand that letting go can be a way of protecting both myself and the things I want to keep alive.

The more I reflect on it, the more I hope my children learn something different from what I learned in my early years of faith. I hope they are not afraid to ask questions. I hope they do not feel inferior in front of people who sound knowledgeable but speak without warmth. I want them to grow into a faith that welcomes curiosity, thoughtfulness, and conscience. I want them to recognize that their connection to God is direct, personal, and rooted in compassion—not fear. I want them to inherit a sense of strength that comes from understanding where they come from, both culturally and spiritually.

As I learn more about rituals like beserara’ bungai, I’ve come to understand that my ancestors didn’t divide life into “spiritual” and “ordinary.” Everything was connected. Life, death, nature, community, and spirit were all part of one whole. That way of seeing the world teaches me to live with care and humility. It shows me that letting go can be a loving act, and returning to our roots can take courage.

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.

Sengalang Burong and the Origins of Iban Augury

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

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

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

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

Sengalang Burong: The Iban God of War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.