Rituals and Rivers: The Story Behind My First Poetry Collection

I published my first poetry collection in August, brought it with me to KL Zine Etc. Festival, read from it in public, sold copies of it, and somehow never wrote about it here.

The reason is simple. Shortly after the festival, I became very ill. It was not the kind of illness that passes after a couple of days of rest. I was hospitalised a couple of times and was at risk of developing sepsis. I am not going to disclose the actual illness, but it was serious enough that I was unwell for almost two months. I had to stop writing and making artwork. I disappeared from this blog and from most other things while I recuperated. The book, however, did not disappear. It existed quietly while I was recovering and waiting for my return.

Now that I am blogging again, I have realised that Rituals & Rivers has never had a proper post of its own. So here we are. This is not a launch announcement because that ship sailed in August. I just want to introduce my book to my blog readers and visitors.

Where The Book Came From

Rituals & Rivers began with a simple fear: that what I remembered would not be enough. I grew up with fragments of Iban life around me: my family history, tales of my ancestors, old songs and omens, rituals, family names, women’s work and remembered journeys. Many of the things that shaped me were never written down. They lived in memory, in work and warning, in speech and in gesture. They were part of my life and I didn’t think of recording any of them.

However, as I grew older and lived away from Sarawak, I became more aware of what I had taken for granted. The Iban language that I grew up with is not part of my everyday life. The stories I heard as a child became fragmented or forgotten. As a mother raising children far from ancestral land, I learned that inheritance does not always pass down by itself. Sometimes we have to be intentional in researching, recording, and passing that knowledge down to the next generation.

The fear of forgetting is really the seed of this collection.

What The Book Became

What began with personal memory eventually grew into a collection of 69 poems across six sections. However, the more I wrote, the wider the scope became. I realised I was no longer only writing about myself. I started to write about language, longhouse life, women, rituals, spiritual beliefs, family history, colonial resistance, land and environmental change, and eventually about what happens when cultural knowledge is no longer passed down naturally.

The poems are organised into six sections that together form a journey of sorts. They begin with questions of belonging and move backwards into childhood, longhouse life, and the women who shaped that world. From there, the collection goes deeper into Iban rituals and spiritual beliefs before turning to my family history, colonial resistance and eventually the question that rests underneath much of this book: what remains, and what do we pass on?

The six sections are:

The Question of Belonging
The Longhouse Remembers
Women Who Hold the House
Rituals, Signs, and the Unseen
War, Resistance, and Inherited Courage
What Remains, What We Pass On

Four Poems and Why I Wrote Them

I want to feature four different poems and the story behind each of them.

a) Tum Ketumba, I Sang the Lullaby

This poem is about a childhood song my sister taught me when I was small. I remember the lyrics even though much of the world around them has mostly vanished. I tried to preserve whatever I still recall of that world. Hopefully, through writing, I can pass it down to my children.

b) Woven Name

This poem is about my great-grandaunt, Selaka, who was a master weaver of pua kumbu, and also about me. Even though I never learned to weave, when I write, I feel connected to what she did. She wove her pua kumbu from dreams, signs, and patience, whereas I write and make art from memory and words.

c) Aji and Dimah (Two Poems)

These poems were inspired by my family history. Aji Apai Limpa was my great-great-great-grandfather, an Iban war leader who resisted the Brooke government and died in battle at Sungai Langit in 1858. Dimah was his wife, often remembered for one tragic incident before the battle. Writing about them was not simply a matter of saying “my ancestor was a warrior.” I was trying to understand them as people, but I was also thinking about what happens when a name you have heard within your family becomes someone you are trying to see clearly.

Research and Uncertainty

Some of these poems came directly from memory, while others required me to research things I remembered only partially. I read ethnographic and historical sources as much as I could. I revisited family histories and tried to understand practices I had grown up around.

I want to be clear that this collection is not presented as a definitive record of Iban culture. It is a personal offering, drawing from memory, family history, oral tradition, and cultural knowledge.

There are gaps and uncertainties in it, and I have allowed those gaps to stay rather than fill them in with something I cannot honestly claim.

Why Rituals & Rivers?

The title came to mind because those two words seemed large enough to contain the entire collection.

The poems are full of rivers. Sungai Layar is the river connected to my ancestral longhouse. Its water carried people and news to and from home before roads existed. Rivers appear as routes, witnesses, and places where history is laid down and life continues.

Rituals are an important part of traditional Iban life. Healing rites, funeral laments, child naming ceremonies, and wedding customs: these are communal rituals that sustain and strengthen a community. They are how we mark what matters and how we pass it on.

Together, rituals and rivers describe what this collection is trying to achieve. Rivers carry things across distance and rituals hold everything together. I am trying to do both.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my children. The final poem, “When They Are Ready”, emphasises that idea. In it, I describe the poems in this collection as perau, or small boats that will carry my children to the things that can reveal their roots.

“… So I write these rivers into words,
each poem a small perau waiting.

When they are ready,
they will launch them,
follow the names I have kept alive,
and find, at the source,

a home that never stopped calling.”

Final Thoughts

After years of working on this collection, the book is finally here. I sold copies during the festival and have continued selling them since. I have read from it publicly, and only now am I sitting down to write about it here.

I am back and writing again. The book exists, waiting for whoever needs it.

Rituals & Rivers is my first full-length poetry collection. If you would like a copy, you can purchase it from my Shopee online store.

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.

Writing About Iban Culture Without Taking the Easy Way Out

Indu Iban — A spread from Iban Women zine

When I first read the CBC article on AI-generated Indigenous content, my stomach tightened. Not because I generated my content with AI, which I don’t, but because I understood how easy it would be for someone looking for Iban culture to find made-up “elders’ teachings” or made-up Iban phrases and think they were the real thing. I am an Iban woman living far from Sarawak and raising children of mixed heritage. While I utilize AI to assist in my writing process, I don’t generate it using an algorithm. My sources are from my family history and lived experiences. These are the datasets I train on. They are living memory and not predictive text.

The article quotes Michael Sherbert saying generative AI is “optimized for fluency, not for truth or for ethical or cultural responsibility.” I think about this every time I sit down to write a poem or draw cultural art. Cultural truth is difficult to tell and requires effort to check for accuracy. Telling cultural truth also means admitting I don’t know many things and need to learn from those who are more knowledgeable. I read all kinds of academic resources and cross-check my facts with family members before I post them on my blog or publish a new cultural zine. I avoid making assumptions, and when I am not sure of the accuracy, I admit that I don’t know and encourage others to share their experiences or information so we can all learn from one another.

Kaitlyn Lazore from the Mohawk community said something that stayed with me: “There’s no easy way to learn the language or gain culture without getting out in your community.” She is right. Still, I am raising my children far away from my homeland. I can’t take my children to a local social gathering to hear native speakers speak Iban. I can’t take them to Sungai Stambak and let the mud cling at their ankles like it did mine. So what do I do? I write and I draw. I make zines like Rituals and Rivers, Iban Women, and Iban Headhunters. I know that all these things are not substitutes for community. But they can turn into a perau, a small boat that will wait for them until they are ready to learn about their roots. They can launch it whenever they want. They can find their way to their roots through the names I’ve kept alive in my writings and art.

Budaya Iban — A spread from Iban Women zine

But I also do what the article emphasized: I am transparent. I include Iban words with definitions in most of the cultural poems I wrote. Every story distinguishes between traditional knowledge and my personal interpretation. I do not claim to be an elder. I am a mother and a learner who is learning to preserve her culture in her own ways.

The article talks about “pan-Indigenous representations that flatten distinct nations into one interchangeable identity.” This is very important to me. I am Iban, not a generic “Borneo culture” or simply an “Indigenous” group. When I write about details like the bungai terung tattoo motif, I name it instead of being vague. When I describe perau pengayau, I explain that they are tied to certain histories. My children are of mixed heritage, and I don’t want their Iban side becoming a blur; thus, I need to be more precise. Brian Ritchie of kama.ai said, “It can be difficult for any user to understand how responsible or accurate or authentic the information is.” That’s why I always mention my sources. I write down who my sources are: my family histories and Iban cultural experts or academicians. I don’t believe in vague statements like “tradition said this and this, so…”

My children may not grow up speaking Iban fluently. Some days, that thought breaks my heart. But they will know that their mother didn’t take the easy way out. She didn’t ask ChatGPT for a “traditional Iban sampi” and then copy and paste it. She had to deal with the pain of forgetting, so she read and conducted her own research to learn the real truth and facts.

Iban culture — A spread for an upcoming zine (still in progress)

At the end of the article, there is a reminder to use your judgment and ask for community vetting. This is what I would add: If you like my work, my poems, my art, or my zines, please also look for Iban elders or experts in Iban studies. Please use my work as an invitation to explore further. It should not be a replacement. I am just one voice who is trying to preserve my culture for the future generations.

My children observe me write. They see me struggle with information, memory, and the pain of being far away from my homeland. And I hope that when they are adults, they will know the difference between something that is made up and something that is real. The difference between a perau that really floats on water and one that only exists in a machine’s algorithm. I will keep making perau until then: one article, one poem, one drawing, and one zine at a time.

When They Are Ready
for the ones I raise far from home

We build our lives on foreign soil,
where rivers have no stories
and the wind sighs emptily.
My children’s tongues are borrowed,
their laughter shaped by cities
that have never heard a gong.

I tell them of the longhouse glow,
the smell of rain,
the river bends like an elder.
They listen, but cannot feel
the ancient soil that holds their roots.

So I write these rivers into words,
each poem a small perau waiting.
When they are ready,
they will launch them,
navigate by the names I’ve kept alive
and find, at the source,
a home that never stopped calling.

(a poem from Rituals and Rivers)

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.

Antu Ngarung | The Guardian Spirit That Shapes My Iban Identity

In Iban belief, the souls of those who die go to Sebayan, the afterworld. Some remain there permanently, but certain individuals are believed to return. These are people who lived with exceptional courage or accomplishment during their lifetime. When these ancestors come back, they do not appear as humans. They come ngarung, meaning concealed, taking the form of animals. These returning spirits are called tua, or guardian spirits.

In the Saribas region, guardian spirits are often seen as snakes such as cobras or pythons. They move quietly, stay in the shadows, and leave without drawing attention. When I picture antu ngarung, I always imagine a cobra coiled in the dark corner of a house or at the edge of the forest. It stays still for a long time and slips away the moment it decides to leave. To many people, it would be just an ordinary animal. To us, it can be an ancestor paying a visit.

A guardian spirit usually belongs to an entire lineage. Because of that connection, the family must never harm or eat the animal that represents their guardian. This is a form of respect. The belief is straightforward: the guardian protects the family, and the family must protect the guardian’s form on earth.

In my family, our guardian is the kijang, the Bornean yellow muntjac. When I was four or five, my late grandparents reminded us repeatedly never to harm, kill, or eat kijang. They did not offer long explanations, but the message was clear. Someone in our line was once a brave person, and that ancestor is believed to return as the kijang to watch over us.

That instruction frightened me growing up. I was afraid I might break the rule by accident. I used to remind myself to always ask what kind of meat was being served when we visited people. At that age, it felt like a tremendous responsibility. Over time, the fear changed. I started to feel that my life was connected to something older and larger than myself. I also realised that this experience was not common among many non-Iban communities, which made me value my heritage even more.

The belief in the kijang has shaped the way I understand myself. It gives me a sense of courage. I am still afraid of many things, but this belief keeps me steady. It reminds me that my ancestors lived through hardship, violence, and uncertainty. My problems today are nothing like what they endured. I often tell myself to live in a way that does not dishonor the people who came before me. I exist today because they survived so much. That thought helps me face difficult moments.

When I imagine the kijang watching me now, I think it sees a woman who lives differently from the Iban women of earlier generations. My lifestyle and interests are not the same. Yet I believe it recognises my effort to understand my roots. It may also encourage me to continue forging my own path even when no one else in my family is doing this kind of work. Many women in my family excel in traditional crafts like beadwork and weaving, but none of them are writers. I have to accept that I may be the first woman in my family to preserve our heritage through writing. Someone younger in the future may look at my work the way I once looked at my namesake, the master weaver. Remembering this keeps me going, even when the work feels lonely.

This leads to something important.

We risk losing our identity when we do not learn about our heritage. The loss does not happen suddenly. It happens slowly. We begin identifying more with other cultures. We forget the meaning behind our names, our customs, and our stories. When we fail to protect what we inherit, we leave an empty space that can be filled by influences that do not reflect who we are. This is happening in many communities around the world, and the Iban are no exception.

Iban identity will not endure by chance. It survives because someone chooses to learn, write, document, and share it. It stays alive when people believe their heritage is worth protecting. It continues when people care enough to ask questions and remember the stories their elders passed down.

Our ancestors returned as antu ngarung for a reason. We owe it to them to honor the heritage they entrusted to us.

The Traditional Path of an Iban Weaver

Among the Iban, weaving has always been a measure of a woman’s place in the community. The knowledge is passed down from mother to daughter, usually when a girl enters her teenage years. She learns each stage with patience: preparing cotton yarn, tying the threads, selecting designs, and working through the complex dyeing process. Every step includes a ritual to maintain balance with the spirit world. A weaver must be skilled, but she must also be spiritually open in order to progress. Through weaving, she learns how to approach the unseen forces that shape her life as a woman and as an artist.

A weaver must follow the traditional sequence of learning. If she attempts skills before she is ready, she risks falling into layu, a state of spiritual deadness. Elders say this condition can affect both the mind and body, and once it takes hold, death is believed to be the only release. Every Iban woman understands this danger, so she approaches her craft with devotion and deep caution.

Pua kumbu is a way to understand a woman’s status. Her rank depends on the dyes she uses, the complexity of her patterns, the precision of her technique, and her relationship with the spiritual world. A pua is not judged by beauty alone. It reflects the weaver’s inner state, her discipline, and the spiritual guidance she receives. Even though many Iban families today have adopted modern beliefs, the traditional criteria for judging a pua still hold meaning. The rituals and techniques behind each piece continue to define its value.

There are several ranks within the weaving world. At the first level are women who do not weave, called Indu Asi Indu Ai or Indu Paku Indu Tubu. They may not come from weaving families or may lack the resources to learn. Much of their time is spent farming and managing household life, and they cannot afford the labour or materials needed for weaving.

The next group consists of women known for their hospitality, called Indu Temuai Indu Lawai. These women usually have enough rice, help, and stability to weave simple designs. With guidance from others, they can produce basic patterns such as creepers or bamboo motifs.

A novice learns within strict boundaries set by tradition. She begins with a small piece of cloth and a simple pattern called buah randau takong randau. She may only weave a cloth that is fifty kayu in width. As her skills improve, she increases the width of her work. By her tenth pua, she will reach a width of 109 kayu. These rules are deeply respected, as they are believed to originate from the spirit world.

When a woman becomes skillful, she is known as Indu Sikat Indu Kebat. She can weave recognised patterns but cannot create her own. Her designs come from motifs passed down through her ancestry. If she wishes to learn new patterns, she must make ritual payment to a more experienced weaver in exchange for permission to use them.

A higher rank is held by the Indu Nengkebang Indu Muntang. She is able to invent new designs, often revealed to her through dreams. She has the ability to attempt complex and spiritually demanding motifs. Her community respects her greatly, and she wears a porcupine quill tied with red thread as a mark of distinction. Other weavers pay her well for new motifs.

At the top of the hierarchy is the Indu Takar Indu Ngar. She is a master dyer, a master weaver, and a ritual specialist. She understands the exact balance of mordants and natural dyes and knows how to fix colour to cotton successfully. Many people know the basic ingredients, but only those with spiritual guidance can complete the process with precision. Her knowledge is both technical and sacred.

To reach this level, a woman must excel in all areas of weaving and dyeing. She must also receive recognition from the spiritual world. This acknowledgment often comes in dreams, which serve as both initiation and confirmation. Sometimes another person dreams on her behalf, affirming her role. Many women at this level come from long lines of weavers and dyers, inheriting designs, dye knowledge, charms, and the support of ancestors whose status once brought additional labour to their families. This allows her to devote herself fully to her craft.

The Indu Takar Indu Ngar is responsible for the ritual preparations of the mordant bath. The ceremony includes animal sacrifice, offerings, and prayer. It is known as kayau indu, or women’s warfare. The ritual is private and demanding, and the leader must be courageous. If she loses control of the spiritual forces present, she risks falling into layu. Her bravery is regarded as equal to that of a warrior.

She also plays an important role in public ceremonies. During Gawai Burong, she scatters glutinous rice at the ceremonial pole. During Gawai Antu, she prepares garong baskets to honour the master weavers of earlier generations. When she dies, her funeral is filled with praise, and her worth is compared to that of a prized jar. Her husband receives honour as well.

Every pua kumbu carries the status of its weaver. Its complexity, width, ritual purpose, and intended use shape its value. Pua kumbu textiles accompany every stage of life and death for those who still observe traditional Iban practices. Each design is tied to a specific ritual, and the ritual gains its character from the cloth chosen for it. This is why pua kumbu remains central to the spiritual life of Iban women.

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.

The Mouse-Deer and the Crocodile | A Classic Iban Folktale

One day, the mouse-deer (pelanduk) went out to look for food. After walking for about an hour, he reached a swamp covered in tall grass (madang melai) and water plants. Not far from there, an old Malay man named Pak Dollah was busy clearing the area to prepare it for farming.

The mouse-deer wanted to eat the fallen fruits of the simpur tree (pun buan) that grew nearby, but he was afraid Pak Dollah might see him. He moved carefully, one step at a time, hoping to stay unnoticed. But his fear was unnecessary, Pak Dollah was too focused on his work to notice anything around him. So the mouse-deer went ahead and ate the fallen fruits to his heart’s content.

When he was full, he turned to leave. Just as he was about to walk away, a female crocodile (baya indu) suddenly shouted at him.

“Hey, Mouse-Deer!” she called.

“Oh, Crocodile! You scared me!” he replied.

“You ate my eggs, didn’t you?” she accused.

“What? Of course not!” said the mouse-deer.

“Don’t lie! I saw your footprints near my nest. All my eggs are broken because of you!” the crocodile shouted angrily.

“You can’t just accuse me like that. What proof do you have?” asked the mouse-deer.

“I saw your footprints, that’s proof enough!” she insisted.

The mouse-deer tried to stay calm. “I didn’t eat your eggs. Maybe they broke because Pak Dollah accidentally cut through your nesting spot while clearing the grass. Look over there, he’s still working.”

But the crocodile didn’t believe him. “Don’t try to trick me. I know your sly ways, Mouse-Deer,” she said. “You’re so small that even if I swallowed you whole, I wouldn’t be full.”

“Alright,” she continued. “If you really didn’t eat my eggs, prove it. Let’s have a tug-of-war. If you lose, that means you’re guilty. If you win, I’ll believe you’re innocent.”

The mouse-deer pretended to think for a moment, then agreed. “Big body, small brain,” he muttered under his breath. He asked for three days to prepare, and the crocodile agreed.

When he got home, the mouse-deer sat quietly, trying to come up with a plan. He knew he could never win against the crocodile by strength alone, so he decided to use his wits. He called his friend, the tortoise (tekura), for help.

“Oh, Tortoise,” he sighed. “I’m doomed. The crocodile challenged me to a tug-of-war because she thinks I ate her eggs.”

“Don’t worry, my friend, I’ll help you,” said the tortoise calmly.

“Do you have an idea?” asked the mouse-deer.

“I do,” said the tortoise. “When the contest starts, tie your end of the rope to the coconut tree by the swamp. The crocodile won’t see it since she’ll be in the water.”

“That’s brilliant. Thank you, Tortoise,” said the mouse-deer, feeling relieved.

Three days later, the crocodile waited by the swamp.

“Hey, Mouse-Deer! Are you here yet?” she called out.

“I came earlier than you,” the mouse-deer replied.

“Are you ready?”

“I am. But before we start, we need a referee,” said the mouse-deer.

Right on cue, the tortoise appeared slowly from behind a tree. Seeing him, the crocodile quickly appointed him as referee. The tortoise pretended to be surprised but accepted.

He set the rules. “Crocodile, if your feet touch the land, you lose. Mouse-Deer, if your feet touch the water, you lose. I’ll go back and forth to make sure both of you obey the rules.”

The crocodile went into the water, holding one end of the rope in her mouth. The mouse-deer stood by the coconut tree, holding the other end. Once the crocodile was ready, the tortoise hurried to help the mouse-deer tie his rope tightly to the tree.

“Alright,” said the tortoise. “One! Two! Three! Pull!”

The crocodile pulled with all her might. Her tail whipped through the water, splashing high into the air. But no matter how hard she pulled, the mouse-deer did not move an inch. On the bank, the mouse-deer pretended to pull back with great effort, squinting and swaying from side to side as if truly struggling.

The contest went on for hours, until late afternoon. The crocodile grew exhausted and finally released the rope, gasping for breath as she crawled onto the shore. The mouse-deer still sat there, holding his end of the rope, calm and unbothered.

The tortoise approached them. “The match is over. Since the crocodile let go of the rope first and came onto land, the winner is the mouse-deer. This proves he didn’t eat your eggs. They were broken because Pak Dollah accidentally cut through your nesting ground while clearing the area. You were the one at fault for laying eggs on his land.”

“See, I told you I’m not afraid of you on land,” said the mouse-deer. “Next time, don’t accuse others without proof.”

The crocodile said nothing. Embarrassed, she quietly slipped back into the water. The mouse-deer and the tortoise looked at each other and smiled before heading home, pleased with how things turned out.

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 Story Behind the Iban Hand Tattoo, Tegulun

Have you ever heard of the Iban hand tattoo called tegulun? It’s one of the most striking forms of body art in our culture, yet not many people know what it really means. I found an old photo taken in 1962 from Life in a Longhouse by Hedda Morrison. It shows the hands of an Iban man with very detailed tattoos that go all the way down to his fingers. The pattern is tegulun.

In the Iban language, tattoos are called pantang or kalingai. Every tattoo on the body used to mean something. Tattoos weren’t fashion statements but they were living records of a person’s journey, courage, and place in the community. Each motif, like bungai terung (eggplant flower), ketam (crab), or kala (scorpion), meant something. For men, tattoos often showed that they participated in headhunting expeditions, or gone through rites of passage. For women, only the most skilled pua kumbu weavers were allowed to bear them.

Among women, the right to be tattooed was not given lightly. A woman known as “Indu Tau Nakar, Indu Tau Gaar”, was a master weaver who earned her tegulun through artistic and spiritual labor. With her hands, she made sacred pua kumbu cloths used in rituals such as receiving enemy heads. The tattoo on her fingers didn’t symbolize violence; it reflected her connection to the spirit world through weaving. These women were highly respected, for they were believed to hold the gift to translate dreams and visions into woven form.

The meaning of tegulun was very different for men. Those who carried it were known as kala bedengah—warriors who had taken part in ngayau, or headhunting expeditions. Someone who had tegulun on his hands was a man who had proven himself in battle. The tattoo was a visible sign of his courage and strength of spirit. It was said that every line or curve on the fingers stood for a head of an enemy that had been killed in the war.

Looking at those tattooed fingers in old photographs, one can almost feel their importance in the past. The men who bore them were not only fighters but also protectors of their culture and their way of life. They lived by a complex set of moral codes that were based on omens, dreams, and rituals. Taking a head was never an act of impulse; it was part of a ceremony tied to the safety, fertility, and prosperity of the longhouse.

One of the most well-known Iban warriors who carried tegulun was Temenggong Koh (1870–1956), a tuai serang (war leader) from Kapit, Sarawak. His fingers were covered in tegulun, each one telling a story of victory and survival. Temenggong Koh once gave his nyabur, the sword he used during ngayau, to Malcolm MacDonald, a British diplomat. The blade still bore traces of dried blood and is now displayed at the Durham University Oriental Museum in the UK.

It’s difficult to imagine that such traditions existed within living memory. Today, there are no Iban men who bear tegulun. The British made headhunting illegal after World War II. The last “licensed” expeditions took place during the Malayan Emergency and Communist Insurgency, when Iban trackers were recruited to assist the British. After that time, the custom of taking heads and the tattoos that went with it completely died out.

The tegulun is more than a reminder of war. It refers to a time when everything, from fighting to making art, was connected to the spiritual order of the world. Tattoos linked the body to the world that can’t be seen. They reflected not only bravery but also a sense of belonging. A man or woman who bore them carried the stories of their people and passed them down through the generations.

Those meanings are at risk of being lost today. Most young Ibans have only seen people with tegulun in books or museum photos. But it’s important to understand them. These tattoos show us how our ancestors thought about life, death, and the sacred balance between the two. They remind us that strength can show itself in many ways, like when you swing a nyabur (sword) or sometimes in the patient rhythm of weaving a pua kumbu.

To learn about tegulun, you have to look beyond the surface of the skin. Though the ink has faded and the rituals have ended, the meanings remain alive in memory. They are echoes from another time, reminding us that every mark and line once carried a story worth telling and remembering.

Image source: Life in a Longhouse by Hedda Morrison

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.

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.