The Hour Between Us

I have been grieving these past few days. It’s not intense but ever present, making every morning feel like a careful step. I have been taking things slowly. I sleep when my body asks. I journal when I feel overwhelmed. I make simple meals and spend less time on social media or reading the news.

Today, on Valentine’s Day, the pain rises closer to the surface. I read that the brain areas that register physical pain also register emotional hurt. The idea almost makes a paracetamol seem logical, as if the heart carried a headache, though I know medicine will not soothe it.

I am sharing two poems I wrote years ago because they hold what I feel more clearly than I can right now. They come from two sides of the same moment. The first poem speaks from her view, aware that time never pauses. The second answers from his side of the same room, the same bed, the same slowly emptying hourglass.

Image source

Her Perspective

Slipping Away

We are dying a little more each day,
you, me, the neighbor with the cracked glasses,
the woman at the train station
who waits for no one.
The boy who lost his dog
last November.

But,
we live like we have
all the time in the world,
we wake to alarms that steal
the dreams from our skin,
eat breakfast,
leave dishes in the sink,
argue about the bills,
make love as if our bodies
aren’t maps of vanishing places.

Denial is an art,
we are its faithful painters.
We fill our days with notifications,
deadlines, grocery lists,
traffic jams, dinner plans,
laughter.
We say, “see you later”
knowing full well that one day,
one of us won’t.

I watch you
in the soft glow of evening,
the furrow in your brows,
the absent scratch of your fingers.
I watch the flicker of your eyes,
as you skim through a book.
You mutter beneath your breath,
making sense of your read.

Later,
in the hush between midnight and morning,
our fingers trace unseen
constellations across warm skin.
For a moment, time disappears,
leaving only us.

I want to tell you,
the sand in the hourglass
doesn’t pause because
we are too afraid to look.
Instead,
I kiss you,
as if that will keep you here,
just a little longer.

His Perspective

Before the Hourglass Breaks (for Liv)

We are fading,
you and I,
like paper that yellows under glass.
Each day lifts a little color.
I count the changes, afraid
I’ll miss the exact moment
we become part of the past.

And still,
I meet you in the mornings
as though the clock has stalled.
I pour coffee,
listen to the three slow turns
of spoon on porcelain.
We talk about nothing urgent,
leave the bed unmade,
let the light spill over our carelessness.

I keep my hands busy
because if I stop,
I’ll touch your face
and give away too much.
Instead, I watch the shadows
move over your shoulders,
trace the curve of your wrist
as you turn a page,
note the small frown
that settles when a sentence traps you.

Later,
when the world finally goes quiet,
your fingertips search for me in the dark.
I memorize their path,
the pauses,
the breath you release
before you closing the space between us.

I want to tell you,
I feel the sand running too.
That I’ve been learning
how to love without holding,
how to stay without staying.
Instead,
I let my lips find yours,
hoping the taste carries forward
into whatever comes after,
and that you’ll feel me there,
just a little longer.

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.

Living in the Gaps

I left church early this month, right at the beginning of another year. Maybe it just lined up that way. But I like to think I want to start afresh with a new spiritual direction after years of being conditioned to think and behave a certain way. I don’t mention this to brag, express bitterness, or suggest some dramatic unraveling. It was just time. The rituals I’d lived by for almost two decades fell away, and in their place, there was a space in my soul that needed filling. There are mornings now when I notice how empty the calendar looks and how the old routines have faded into habits I no longer keep. Sometimes the silence feels clean. Other times, it’s just unheard noise echoing in my head.

What comes after that kind of ending stays unclear for a while. I’ve been reading about Japanese philosophy. Wabi sabi, mono no aware, all those names for things I’ve always sensed but never managed to explain. There’s something grounding in how it speaks to imperfection or how it leans into acceptance without chasing resolution. Not everything is a lesson. Some things are just facts. Life changes, and I find myself moving slower, sometimes unsure if I’m pausing or simply stuck.

Right now, my days are crowded with interruptions. My daughter is starting Form 4. The house shifts on a new schedule, full of reminders and small emergencies. I keep thinking I’ll find a stretch of time. A few hours in the morning, or an evening when everyone is asleep, to work without interruption. That stretch never comes. The days are chopped into fragments: drive here, answer that, sew a button, check a schedule, stir a pot, fold the laundry. The idea of “flow” feels distant, like something I used to believe in but haven’t seen in months.

Some days, I catch myself measuring everything. I have work I want to do. Books on the shelf, half-finished zines, old artwork I think I might want to bring back to life for an upcoming festival. I keep thinking of artists with quiet studios and long blocks of time, while I’m piecing together minutes from whatever’s left. Sometimes, when I’m honest, I wonder if it’s enough to just keep going at this pace, never catching up, always watching the unfinished stack grow a little higher.

But I read. It’s less than I’d like, but still something. I journal, at times with purpose. Other times, just to sort through the mess in my head. Lately, I’m reading about wabi sabi and the value of things left incomplete, the quiet beauty of days that never fit into a neat story. There are passages I highlight, sentences that feel familiar even though I’m seeing them for the first time. Some days I manage a few pages, sometimes less. But I let it count.

When my mind is too tangled, I move. I walk outside just to breathe under the trees. After years of abandoning it, I return to my yoga practice, but I do it at my own pace. I don’t follow anyone else’s rhythm, and I’ve stopped tying value to flexibility or control. Sometimes I sit in silence and watch the room change with the light. Most days, I have more questions than answers. That seems to be how it is now.

This isn’t a season of high productivity. My kids’ schooling, the changing schedules, the constant need for adjustment—none of it feels like the life of an artist I used to imagine. But there’s something in the interruptions themselves that feels honest. My work is built from what’s left after everyone else’s needs are met. I don’t resent it, even when I’m tempted to. Some days I wish it were less chaotic, but it’s still the life I chose.

There’s an indigenous festival in May. I plan to participate, but nothing is confirmed. I think about it more than I admit. I wonder if what I have is enough artwork to sell, or if I should be making more or pushing harder. The urge to push is still there, even though I’ve seen where it leads. I try to remind myself that journaling, reading, and living through this time are not a detour. They shape the work, whether I see the results yet or not.

Most days I don’t feel behind or ahead. I just feel present. Some days I’m restless, convinced I’m wasting time. Other days, I find relief in moving slow, in giving myself permission to pause. I’m not heading toward anything specific. I’m just living, one interruption at a time.

My shelves are full of books I haven’t read yet. Some I’ve kept for years. I’ve stopped treating them like tasks I need to finish. I pick one up, read a few pages, underline something that catches my attention. I put it down, sometimes for weeks. The book waits. So do I.

If there’s any lesson in this season, it isn’t obvious. The days pass. The interruptions pile up. The unfinished work waits on the table. I don’t know when I’ll finish the next zine, or if the festival will happen, or if I’ll ever catch up on all the books. But I’m still here, moving quietly, not rushing the days or trying to make them mean more than they do.

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 Bungai: Ancestry, Identity, and the Iban Connection to Nature

The Iban believe that the self is not limited to the body or the soul that wanders in dreams. Our ancestors believed that each person has a bungai, which is a plant-image that lives in the invisible world of Manang Menjaya, the god of healing. This plant-image takes the form of bamboo or banana and grows in clumps from a single rootstock. It is a powerful way of understanding human life. The bungai grows, strengthens, weakens, dies, and falls to the ground, just as a person does.

When I first heard about this idea, it stuck with me for days. It helped me see the forest differently and understand why the Iban imagine the community the way they do. In this worldview, no one grows alone. We rise from the same source. Relationships, ancestry, and connections we can’t see hold us together in ways that go far beyond our personal stories. This belief feels very grounding at a time when many of us feel adrift or disconnected.

The choice of bamboo and banana is meaningful. These plants do not grow by themselves. They grow in clumps, called bepumpun. A single shoot is part of a larger body that gets its nutrients from the same soil and root. Every shoot has its own height, shape, and direction, but they all come from the same source. This is how the Iban once understood family. A family is one clump. A longhouse community is made up of many clumps. The forest itself becomes a reflection of the social world.

This is not a metaphor for the sake of beauty. People who live close to the land learn its pattern by observing it daily. The Iban watched how plants behave, how they survive storms, and how they keep growing new shoots even after the old ones fall off. The Iban were shaped by the rainforest, and it was a teacher, a mirror, and a guide.

The bungai makes this idea clearer. It shows us that each person is both unique and part of a lineage. A child is a new shoot from an old rootstock. The state of one shoot affects the whole clump. The well-being of the entire garden reflects the condition of the longhouse. No one exists apart from the others who stand beside them. Even in the unseen world, the Iban imagined people living bepumpun, connected through generations, place, memory, and spiritual obligations.

I find this comforting. There were times in my life when I felt distant from my roots. Leaving home for school, work and marriage created gaps I did not understand at the time. I lived away from Sarawak for many years. I felt as though I was a shoot attempting to thrive in soil that was not my own. Learning about the bungai made me see that the rootstock never disappears. The connection stays even after we leave. We are still held by the unseen garden. It doesn’t matter how far someone travels; the lineage remains.

Another thing I appreciate about the bungai is how it reflects emotional and spiritual states. The bungai becomes weaker when a person is sick. It withers when the soul wanders. This worldview recognizes how closely the body, mind, and emotions are connected. It respects how complicated it is to be human. A withered feeling is not seen as weakness but as a sign that the self needs care, grounding, or healing. Manang Menjaya is responsible for this realm, taking care of the gardens of human life like a healer tends to the sick. It is a gentle belief shaped by compassion.

The idea that the bungai falls when someone dies is also meaningful. The clump remains alive and ready to push a new shoot upward for the next generation. The rootstock stays strong. The lineage continues. There is sorrow, but there is also continuity. The living remain connected to those who came before them.

When I reflect on this, I see how the bungai offers us a way to think about community in today’s world. Many of us live far from home. Some grow up with mixed heritage, navigating several identities at once. Some people don’t feel connected to their language, their land, or their family’s history. The bungai concept reminds us that belonging isn’t just about being close to someone physically. It also has to do with our shared ancestry, memories, and the unseen ties that still hold us together.

The forest shows us that we can’t survive alone. Bamboo stands because the clump stands. A community stays together because its roots are strong. Long before the words “ecology” or “sustainability” were even used, our ancestors knew this. They practiced it when they built longhouses, shared food, and worked the land. They lived in a world where the rhythms of nature and community supported each other.

Writing about the bungai feels like returning to a memory I never knew I had. It combines culture, spirituality, and nature in a way that feels very Iban. It makes me think of how our people used to observe the forest, learn its patterns, and keep it in balance. The bungai is more than just a spiritual idea. It is a way of looking at life that sees it as connected, continuous, and held by something greater than the self.

I want to honor this understanding as I continue working on my cultural projects. I want the Iban in the diaspora, those growing up with mixed heritage, and those rediscovering their language again to know that our roots are still alive, even when we feel far from them. The bungai reminds us that we come from the same source, and the clump endures.

One Clump
If we were bamboo,
we would be one rootstock.
Two shoots from the same source
fed by the same unseen tenderness
running under everything.

You would lean into me
when the wind turns,
and I would hold fast
with a strength drawn
from the ground we share.

A clump is a world.
A home where no stalk stands alone.
Each one rises
because the others do.
The root simply refuses
to forget a single one.

I want that with you—
a belonging without effort.
Our lives rising
from the same dark earth,
so that even Menjaya
counting lives in his garden,
would find us together.

If you falter, I stand closer.
If you bend, I become your spine.
We are two lives
shaped by each other’s nearness.

If we are a clump, love,
then we are one living thing—
one root,
one anchor,
one quiet refusal
to ever rise alone.

My First Group Exhibition in Malaysia and A New Zine in the Making

Tomorrow is the soft launch of Akar Kita Abadi, the group exhibition I’ve been preparing for the past few weeks. I will exhibit several of my Iban heritage poems called Rituals and Rivers, and holding these printed booklets, which just arrived, feels like a confirmation of all the time spent writing, editing, and polishing. This little booklet (or zine) has 10 poems from a much bigger collection of Iban heritage poetry that I want to publish in 2026. I will be selling these booklets during the exhibition and they are quite limited in number. I will share more about the exhibition after the launch tomorrow. I can’t share pictures until after the launch so I can’t really say much about the whole thing. The exhibition will last until 23 November so if you’re in Klang Valley, you may want to drop by and give us your support.

While this exhibition marks the beginning of sharing that collection publicly, another project has started to take root in parallel. I have begun working on a new zine that will focus entirely on Iban women. This project seems like a continuation of Rituals & Rivers, but through a more personal viewpoint. It will look at various facets of Iban womanhood, from ancient times to the present.

Every page will be hand-drawn using pencil and black fine liners, but for the actual zine they will be edited and printed. Drawing by hand has a grounding effect, allowing each line to have its own rhythm and imperfection. The only printed text will be the longer passages and explanations, saving space while keeping the design balanced. I have not planned the number of pages or illustrations yet. I like to let the process evolve spontaneously. Each piece generally begins as a poem or a brief reflection before taking on a visual shape.

One of the first illustrations is inspired by women who sing to the moon as their laughter threads through the bamboo. Another drawing shows the anak umbung, the daughter of an Iban war leader who was raised apart from others and taught weaving skills. Her story has stayed with me, serving as a reminder of the beauty and self-control that once entwined women’s lives. There is also a drawing of a woman tending to the hearth before dawn. These aren’t big moments; they’re small actions that show tenderness, duty, and strength in Iban women.

This new zine will be based on the same ideas as Rituals & Rivers, but it will focus more closely on the daily and the personal. It will explore what it means to be an Iban woman across generations, including the traditions that are passed down, the unspoken resilience, and the actions that connect one life to another. It’s a way for me to listen to the voices of the women who came before me and to honor how their spirit still lives on in us now.

I don’t know what the completed zine will be like, but I know it will develop slowly, page by page, just like stories used to do, with care and patience.

The Forgotten Script of My Ancestors | Remembering the Papan Turai

The majority of us are familiar with Egyptian hieroglyphics. However, not many people are aware that the Iban used to have their own type of pictorial writing. My ancestors’ written language, known as “turai,” is carved onto wooden boards called “papan turai.” During major festivals like Gawai Batu and Gawai Antu, lemambang (ritual bards) used these boards to recall and recite the pengap (folk epics), timang (invocations), and many other types of Iban poetry (leka main asal).

The papan turai is more than just a ceremonial piece. It serves as a link between oral and written tradition. Some of these carved symbols date back about four centuries. They preserve fragments of genealogy (tusut), the Iban’s migration history from the Kapuas region of Kalimantan to Sarawak, and even tales of tribal conflicts and legendary Iban leaders.

Researchers from the Sarawak Museum and UNIMAS have been examining these boards to find out what they symbolize. What is remarkable is that lemambang from various areas can comprehend each other’s papan turai. This demonstrates that there was once a common symbolic language among people in different communities.

This discovery goes against the previous belief that the Iban were completely “pre-literate” before Western influence arrived. The papan turai shows that our forefathers had their own way of keeping records of what they knew, which was based on ritual, cosmology, and collective memory. It reminds us that being able to read and write doesn’t just imply knowing the alphabet and how to write on paper.

In 1947, an Iban scholar named Dunging anak Gunggu expanded upon this tradition. He developed a whole writing system based on turai. However, few people know about this writing system, even among Sarawakians.

When I stood in front of the papan turai at the Borneo Cultures Museum, I felt a sense of recognition. They reminded me of the pua kumbu patterns that Iban women wove to tell stories about spirits, dreams, and journeys. Both have the same goal: to record, remember, and preserve meaning alive beyond the present.

It made me realize that each culture had its unique way of retaining memories. Some people carve it into stone, some into wood, others into sound, and yet others into cloth. For the Iban, it may have been all of these things at once. The lemambang sang what the papan turai contained, and the pua weavers wove tales and ancestral history into the thread. These were our books before books.

As I stood there, I thought about how easily such histories fade away. It’s not because they aren’t relevant, but because they aren’t documented in the systems that the world relies on. The papan turai lived on through continuity of ritual and faith. Its knowledge lived on through the lemambang, in various ceremonies and festivals, and in the community gathered around the ruai during Gawai. When modern eyes look at the papan turai, they may see only strange markings. But these are not just symbols. They hold our heritage. They are reminders that our people were already keeping records of their lives in their own way long before British colonials came with pen and paper. However, I am not sure how long we can keep them alive, as the lemambang is becoming a dying breed of heritage guardians of the Iban.

I felt pride and loss as I left the museum that day. Pride, since the papan turai shows that Iban civilization was more complicated and deep than most people realize. Loss, because so few of us can interpret those symbols today.

Maybe this is why I write and draw. I want to continue that old rhythm in a new form. My writings and drawings are like my own papan turai, illustrating the lines that connect the past and the present. I strive to document things that could otherwise disappear, including stories from my indigenous perspective, feelings, and fragments of my identity.

To me, the papan turai is more than an artifact. It is a mirror that reflects an ancient hunger to make meaning clear and to preserve memories alive before they disappear. And maybe that instinct to leave a mark and to tell a story is something that never truly goes away. It exists in our language, our art, and our digital words. It’s the same urge that led a lemambang to carve symbols into wood hundreds of years ago, hoping that someone would remember it someday.

Sources: Religious Rites and Customs of the Iban or Dyaks of Sarawak by Leo Nyuak and Edm. Dunn (1906), UNIMAS Gazette.

Iban Augury | The Language of Birds and the Art of Listening

Prior to the coming of Christianity and Islam, the Iban people had a sophisticated system of animistic beliefs. The world was believed to be filled with spirits—some friendly, others unpredictable—who lived in jungles, rivers, animals, and dreams. The desire to live in harmony with these invisible forces influenced many aspects of life, from farming and hunting to warfare and family decisions.

Augury, or “beburong” in Iban, was one of the most intricate systems in this belief. It is a sacred form of divination that uses the movements and sounds of certain birds known as burung mali (omen birds) to seek direction. The practice was said to have been taught to humans by Sengalang Burong, the Iban God of War and divine messenger. He taught that the gods do not speak directly but send their messages through the natural world.

Every omen bird has a specific meaning. The interpretation of their cries, flight paths, and actions guides important decisions, such as whether to start planting paddy, go on a journey, or go to war. The tuai burong, an augur who can read and understand the language of birds, is responsible for figuring out what these signs mean. This cultural duty used to be a big part of Iban life because it was a way for people to connect spiritually and keep their conduct in line with God’s will.

Oral history states that Sengalang Burong and his wife, Endu Sudan Berinjan Bungkong, had seven daughters and one son. Each daughter married a nobleman who became one of the seven omen birds: Ketupong (Rufous Piculet), Beragai (Scarlet-Rumped Trogon), Bejampong (Crested Jay), Pangkas (Maroon Woodpecker), Embuas (Banded Kingfisher), Kelabu Papau (Diard’s Trogon), and Burung Malam, which literally means “night bird” but is a cricket. The eighth omen bird, Nendak (White-Rumped Shama), is Sengalang Burong’s faithful messenger. All of these are real, common bird species that live in the Borneo rainforest.

Sengalang Burong passed down the knowledge of augury to his grandson, Sera Gunting. Sera Gunting is the son of Sengalang Burong’s eldest daughter, Endu Dara Tinchin Temaga, and her second husband, a man named Menggin. Sera Gunting also learned the omens of war when he joined a ngayau (headhunting) expedition with his seven uncles—the noblemen who married Sengalang Burong’s daughters. He later passed his knowledge to his descendants. Linggir Mali Lebu, Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang, and Unggang Lebor Menoa were among the subsequent generations of Iban war leaders who observed and practiced the war omens he had learned.

Sengalang Burong also taught Sera Gunting about the different stages of Gawai Burong, the festival that war leaders had to hold to invite him and his followers to attend. That is a story and post for another time.

All the omen birds mentioned above can still be found in Borneo’s rainforests. I have never seen them in the wild or heard their calls in person, but last month, when I visited the Borneo Cultures Museum, I had the opportunity to hear recorded calls from Beragai and Embuas. I could hear the sound of wind, insects, and other birds in the distance along with their calls in the recordings. It was difficult to tell which bird made which sound. It reminded me that to practice augury, you needed to believe and have an attentive ear to pay close attention to the different bird calls.

Those recordings brought back a memory from my childhood. When I was nine years old, my parents decided to adopt the baby son of a relative. They had everything ready: a small bassinet, baby clothes, and the trip to the longhouse where the child was staying. They had to walk through the jungle for three hours to reach the place.

Along the way, they encountered an omen bird. I don’t know which one it was, but a tuai burong was consulted to explain the sign. He advised my parents not to continue. He said that if they went through with the adoption, the boy would grow up to “overrule” me and my siblings, which means he would prosper more than us and that we might fall into misfortune. My parents took the advice and chose not to go through with it. The baby stayed with his other relatives, and that was the end of it.

Looking back, I understand that moment not as superstition but as a reflection of how much faith my parents had in the way things were meant to be. They thought that signs meant something and that the natural world could warn or guide us through nature’s language. It was a way of life built on attention, not control. However, it didn’t stop me from wondering, what if the boy experienced a difficult childhood filled with poverty and hardship and was denied the chance to live a better life due to the bird’s signs?

Today I realized how rarely I listen. The world around me is full of noise—machines, traffic, and incessant messages devoid of meaning. Even in silence, my mind is busy with thoughts, endless scrolling, or work. Listening feels like a lost art. I no longer know how to hear what my forefathers intuitively understood: that signs came quietly, without noise or spectacle.

I’m not sure if anyone still practices augury today. Perhaps a few elders still possess fragments of that knowledge. Even if it is no longer practiced, I hope that Ibans, particularly the younger generation, understand its origins and significance. Beburong was once central to how our people made decisions and understood their relationship with nature. It influenced how they approached the world—with respect, patience, and a willingness to listen. Perhaps I’ll never see those birds in the wild or hear their true calls across the forest. But I’d like to believe they’re still there, their voices blending with the wind, delivering guidance that once guided entire communities.

Diplomacy Does Not Mean Endorsement

Last night, I responded to a post on Threads about Donald Trump’s visit to Malaysia for the ASEAN Summit. The original post questioned why Malaysians who support Palestine were not outraged that Trump was coming. I replied that world politics does not revolve around the Palestinian issue alone and that diplomacy requires engagement, even with those we disagree with.

What happened next wasn’t a conversation; it was an attack. Someone called me naive and even used my identity as an Indigenous woman against me. She said that as an Iban, I should know more about land grabs and colonialism, and she implied that I was betraying that history by defending engagement with the United States. She cited Cuba as a model, saying Malaysia should isolate itself, like Cuba, and reject American influence completely.

I understood where the emotion came from. The Palestinian struggle resonates with many of us, as it reflects the shared anguish of displacement and dehumanization endured by other marginalized groups. It has come to stand for the fight against empire and global injustice. I grieve for them too. But that one conflict isn’t the cause of all the crises in the world. Congo, Sudan, Myanmar, and West Papua all have their own histories, shaped by local power struggles, colonial legacies, and modern exploitation. The Palestinian cause is not the origin of imperialism, but it is part of a larger pattern of it.

The comparison to Cuba also didn’t take into account how complicated our region is. Cuba’s defiance of the United States is often romanticized, but the reality is much harsher. Years of economic sanctions have caused suffering and shortages. Cuba remained steadfast, but the isolation it endured came at a heavy cost to its people. That path is not possible for Malaysia. We are not an island nation shielded from regional shifts. We are part of ASEAN, a bloc that survives through dialogue, consensus, and constant balancing between larger powers.

To disengage would not make us righteous. It would make us irrelevant. Sovereignty is not merely about being alone. It is also about having a seat at the table where decisions are made. Engagement does not mean agreement. We live in the world as it is, not as we wish it to be.

Malaysia’s invitation to Trump did not mean endorsement of his policies or his past actions. It was part of ASEAN’s long-established diplomatic practice. The United States has been a formal partner in ASEAN-led dialogues since 2009, when President Obama signed the Treaty of Amity and Cooperation (TAC). The treaty symbolized a willingness to follow the “ASEAN Way,” a diplomatic approach that values non-interference, consensus, and mutual respect. The TAC made it possible for the US to join the East Asia Summit, where world powers discuss cooperation and regional security.

The Obama administration strengthened this relationship by shifting American focus from the Middle East to the Indo-Pacific through the Pivot to Asia. This decision acknowledged the growing economic and political importance of Asia, as well as China’s rapid rise. The US began to engage with ASEAN more seriously, not out of charity, but because it seeks stability in the region to serve its interests. That engagement, even if self-serving, gave ASEAN leverage over China, which was becoming more dominant.

We cannot ignore China’s role in the region. In the past decade, it has become more aggressive in the South China Sea by building artificial islands, expanding military presence, and encroaching into maritime zones claimed by Vietnam, the Philippines, and Malaysia. This has placed ASEAN in a difficult position. China is vital economically but intimidating strategically. The United States functions as a counterweight in this situation. Without an external balancing force, Beijing could exert complete dominance over Southeast Asia.

This is the uncomfortable truth of international politics: moral clarity and strategic necessity rarely align. Malaysia can speak out against injustice in Palestine and still maintain good relations with the United States. We can be against occupation and still welcome dialogue. These positions do not contradict each other. They are two forms of survival that coexist.

It is easy to demand purity from the sidelines, but governance requires nuance. To those who use identity as a weapon, I say this: being Iban does not mean rejecting engagement or diplomacy. My ancestors fought when they had to and negotiated when they must. They understood that survival depends on knowing when to speak and when to listen. Being practical is not disloyal. It is wisdom passed down from generations who understood the cost of isolation.

Cuba resisted and endured decades of hardship. Malaysia engages because we have learned a different truth, that sometimes the best thing we can do for our people is to keep showing up, even when it is uncomfortable. Diplomacy does not mean endorsement. It is how small nations stay relevant. It is also how Indigenous voices remain part of the global conversation and how we hold our place between superpowers that shape our future.

Note:

I am not a political expert. As a Malaysian Iban woman, I’m trying to figure out how history and power affect where we stand in the world. I’m not trying to defend any leader or nation. I’m just trying to remind myself that ideals don’t mean much if they lack a basis in reality. I believe small nations can hold both principle and pragmatism, just like people can be both kind and rational.

On Cultural Erasure and the Right to Be Ourselves | We Are Not Yours to Claim and Rename

This week, a man on social media told me that all Indigenous peoples of Borneo are Malay. He spoke as if it were an unbreakable truth, and a few confident sentences could change centuries of culture and memory. He talked like someone who was certain of his place in the world and couldn’t imagine that others might have histories older than his own.

I am Iban. You can’t claim and rename my people.

That one conversation was a sign of a much larger issue. It wasn’t just a rude comment but the same old narrative that keeps playing beneath the surface of national conversations. This idea that everything in the Nusantara archipelago belongs under the Malay umbrella is not unity. It is colonization in a new form that continues to erase the cultures that make this region truly diverse.

A thesis essay titled “Cultural Genocide Against Ethnic Groups in Sarawak” discusses this gradual erasure as a form of genocide that occurs through language, law, and land instead of war. It addresses what has been happening in Sarawak and all over Borneo for decades: the gradual disappearance of Indigenous ways of life. There won’t be any violence in the news, but you can see it in how children forget their native languages and how native stories are rewritten or how they are dismissed as myths.

The first impact is on the land. Large-scale logging, oil-palm plantations, and hydroelectric projects like the Bakun and Murum dams have forced Indigenous communities to evacuate ancestral lands they had occupied for generations. For many outsiders, these are symbols of progress. For the people who lived on that land, they are the loss of a living relative. Land isn’t just property; it’s a memory, a source of livelihood, and the center of our beliefs. When it is taken, the connection between people and their ancestors, between rituals and the land, ceases to exist.

The next impact is on language. Malay and English are the main languages spoken in classrooms and offices. Iban, Bidayuh, Penan, and other Indigenous languages, on the other hand, remain in private spaces. The national curriculum rarely acknowledges them. A language is more than just words; it also embodies every aspect of our heritage. When children grow up without it, they lose not only vocabulary but also the worldview embedded in those sounds.

The third impact is spirituality. Before Christianity and Islam arrived, our ancestors believed in a cosmology that connected people, nature, and the unseen. The adat guided balance and respect. Several elements were based on Hindu-Buddhist beliefs from the Majapahit and Minangkabau traditions, but those influences became uniquely our own, shaped by our environment. If you call these beliefs primitive, you are ignoring how sophisticated they are. Long before the word existed, they taught people about law, ethics, and ecology. The suppression of these systems has shattered more than trust; it has destroyed the bridge between generations.

The last impact lies in invisibility. Bureaucracy rarely speaks the language of the natives. Many still struggle to gain recognition of their customary land rights or even simple documents like birth certificates and identity cards. People who don’t have these papers become ghosts in their own country—unseen in census numbers and uncounted in national decisions.

Taken together, these forces create the silent machinery of cultural genocide. It’s not about individual malice but about a system that values uniformity over diversity and control over respect. When progress is measured only by infrastructure and profit, it becomes a form of forgetting.

I write this not to sow division, but to call for honesty. Respect for Indigenous tribes and their histories is not charity but a moral obligation. When you erase a culture, you do not create unity. You create emptiness. Real harmony happens when differences can exist side by side, without one overtaking the other.

If you have mixed roots and feel like you’re torn between two identities, know this: you’re not a poser. You are the result of two or more heritages coming together. You have the strength of several worlds inside you. You have every right to learn your ancestral language, honor both sides of your heritage, and talk about it with pride. You can still reach your roots and the journey begins with curiosity and grows through community.

And to those who continue to insist that “everyone is Malay,” listen up: you are not defending tradition; you are performing a modern version of the same colonial mindset you claim to oppose. Claiming and renaming others is not leadership. It’s theft. It is a refusal to accept that different roots can live together without merging into one trunk.

The Iban, Bidayuh, Kenyah, Penan, Lun Bawang, Melanau, Kelabit, and countless other groups are not extensions of a larger race. We are nations within a nation, with histories that predate borders. We have our own gods and deities, our own literature, our own rituals and way of life. We don’t need anyone to save us from ourselves.

So take care of your own culture and let us take care of ours. Guard your own identity and let us stay as ourselves. You don’t have to tell us what to believe, how to speak, or how to conduct our affairs. Preserve your own heritage and quit trying to claim ownership of what doesn’t belong to you.

This moment in our history calls for courage. We need courage to listen, fix what has been distorted, and return whatever is rightfully ours. We don’t need anyone’s permission to exist. Even when others pretend to forget, we remember. We will continue to speak, to write, to sing, and to exist in our own rhythm. We are not lesser branches of your tree. We are forests in our own right.

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.