The night sky stretched out like an everlasting veil, thick with gloom. The stars blinked, their usual brilliance dimming, seemingly bearing the brunt of the decision I faced. My warriors remained silent. Their eyes are full of trust. Trust in me.
However, my own heart was raging.
The dream lingered, as clear as if it had been etched into the walls of my memory. Kumang, a Panggau Libau goddess, appeared to me last night. Her gaze was mournful. Her voice sent a warning: "Do not strike at dawn. To do so would result in your death."
Since I was a child, I had been taught to give heed to such signs. Dreams are more than just illusions; they are guidance from the gods who live in the spiritual realm of the sky, Panggau Libau and Gelong. Nonetheless, I couldn't ignore the weight crushing on my shoulders. How could I, Aji Apai Limpa, resist my people's demand to defend our land and way of life against invaders who sought to crush it under their ambitions of colonialism?
Doubt coiled within me like a snake, growing tighter with each passing moment. My thoughts examined each consequence. If I held back, I risked being seen as weak and unable to confront the challenges of war. But if I attacked despite Kumang's warning, the cost could be even greater - not only my own but the lives of those who relied on me for security.
The fire crackled beside me to keep the chill away, but the tumult in my soul persisted. I remembered my father, who had taught me the ways of the warrior and the code of honor. I could almost hear his voice now, deep and firm, reminding me that the strength of a leader is measured in wisdom rather than bloodshed.
But wisdom seemed elusive tonight. I'd seen too much already: longhouses burned, crops destroyed, and our people killed and displaced. The White Rajah troops moved like an unstoppable tide. I had rallied my warriors to this location by promising them resistance. Could I now beg them to wait and hold back because of a dream? How would they perceive me if that happened?
Kumang's face returned to my mind, her expression not one of anger but of understanding. Was she trying to test me? Did she see a path that I couldn't? Or was this simply the fate of every leader: to make decisions in the shadows?
I looked to the heavens for answers, but none appeared. There was only an unrelenting silence. However, in that silence, I found a strange clarity. The river sprang to mind - how it runs not because it fights against the earth but because it accepts its course. Perhaps this was the lesson Kumang wanted to teach me. Action does not always manifest strength. Sometimes it is about restraint and knowing that not every conflict needs to be fought with swords.
Still, my people's faces flashed before me. The children were playing in the ruai, their laughter ringing like the sound of birdsong. The elderly, their rheumy eyes filled with stories from the past, imparted their wisdom by the bedilang. Could I genuinely stand aside and allow the enemy to march unopposed into our homeland?
I tightened my grip on my sangkuh to keep myself grounded. I had witnessed enough death to grasp its inevitability. If Kumang's vision was true, my own demise awaited me at daybreak. But what about it? A leader's life is never fully his own; it belongs to the people he leads. Was it not worth the cost of my death to provide my people just one more day of freedom from foreign hands?
But doubt gnawed at me. Would my death make any difference? Would it motivate my men to fight harder, or would it crush their spirits, making them vulnerable to the enemy's advances? Such questions could not be answered tonight.
I closed my eyes and offered a prayer for courage. Courage to make a decision that would shape not only my life, but the lives of many others. Courage to confront whatever was ahead, be it glory or death.
As the first glow of dawn rose on the horizon, I got up to my feet. My warriors stirred, their gaze fixed on mine, looking for instruction. The weight of their faith fell upon me like a blanket, both heavy and reassuring.
I took long breaths, letting the cool morning air fill my lungs. The dream, the warning, the doubts - all were part of the moment that sealed my fate. I couldn't avoid or deny them.
"We move at dawn," I said, my voice firm but almost a whisper. The words tasted bitter, carrying the guilt of defying Kumang's wisdom. But these words were also mine, the choice of a leader who understood that in order to protect his people, he had to sometimes step into the storm.
As my warriors readied, I took one more look at the sky, half expecting to see Kumang's face in the clouds. There was nothing but the rising sun, shining its light on the land I had vowed to protect. Whether it symbolized the beginning or the end of my life, I would face it with the same determination, love for my people, our land, our way of life, and the belief that some things are worth any cost.
Note: This post is my response to the Freewriters community's writing prompt for January 2, 2025: Bad Sign. This post is inspired by the life of my great-great-great-grandfather, Aji Apai Limpa, a well-known war leader of the Iban people of Borneo in the mid-nineteenth century. From 1854 to 1858, Aji commanded his warriors in resistance to the White Rajah's forces. He died in a fierce battle at Sg. Langit (Langit River) in 1858. Aji's courage and valor have been immortalized in Iban poetry, which is passed down through generations by bards.
The Iban people of Borneo were traditionally animists, believing that spirits, animals, nature, and other aspects of the earth are living and interrelated. Although the majority of Ibans now are Christians or Muslims, animist influences are nevertheless firmly ingrained in their traditional beliefs and customs. Among these traditions is augury—the interpretation of god's signs given through the behavior of specific birds regarded as divine messengers. Augury is an important part of Iban divination, along with dream interpretation. These practices represent a worldview that sees the sacred in the natural world, providing direction and cautions to those who understand its signs.
- Ruai: the communal open area or covered verandah that runs along the length of a traditional longhouse.
- Bedilang - hearth
- Sangkuh - spear
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Note: All images used belong to me unless stated otherwise.
