BENEATH the weathered awning of a provision shop in our village, a sombre voice broke the late afternoon stillness.
“I’m going to be a father, and I’m absolutely terrified,” declared Sutap, his words as heavy as the humid air.
He was sitting cross-legged beside a friend, sharing a bottle of ‘tuak’, the golden liquid catching the sunlight.
Sutap was a familiar figure in the village. I knew him only in passing then, as one knows the faces of neighbours without truly knowing their stories. To me, he was just another adult.
A Boy, Curious but Oblivious
The 1960s in our village were a picture of rustic simplicity. Life moved to the rhythm of the seasons, and for a boy like me, the world was of endless discovery. My days were filled with school activities on weekdays, and on weekends, I enjoyed fishing, collecting edible plants in the nearby jungle, or playing with friends.
It was during one such carefree day that I overheard Sutap’s words. They were plain and unvarnished, but I didn’t understand them.
The gravity of becoming a father and all that entailed was incomprehensible to me. How could I? I was too young.
Yet, oddly, even as a child, I could sense that something about that moment, those words, mattered. They lingered in my mind like the faint scent of rain on the wind – a prelude to something yet to come.
It would take decades for me to fully understand why they had stayed with me, tucked away in the recesses of my memory, waiting for a context I couldn’t yet provide.
The Weight of Fatherhood Looms
Fast forward to the mid-1980s when I was a grown man in my late twenties, living in Kuching and working for the state’s government radio station.
My visits to the village were sporadic, but I still managed to cross paths with Sutap, although he was no longer known by that name, except among close friends and his siblings.
The villagers had begun calling him Beh Jun – literally, “Jun’s grandfather”. His eldest granddaughter was named Jun, and according to our custom, it was more proper to address him by this kinship title than by his given name.
Each time I bumped into Beh Jun, he would greet me with a toothy grin and a hearty laugh, as though he still couldn’t quite believe the transformation of the snot-nosed boy obsessed with fishing into a city dweller.
His amusement was genuine, but so too was his curiosity. He would often ask me about my work, my life in the city, and the world beyond our little village.
It was during one of these encounters that I recalled the words he had spoken decades ago.
“Do you remember saying you were terrified of becoming a father?” I asked, half-expecting him to laugh it off.
To my surprise, his expression grew thoughtful. “Of course, I remember,” he said, his voice tinged with the weight of years.
“But how come you know about it?”
I told him about the matches and salt that my mother had sent me to buy. His laughter returned then, a deep and hearty sound that echoed through the shop.
“Ah, so you were eavesdropping, were you?” he teased, though there was no malice in his tone.
What followed was unexpected – a window into his life, a narrative shaped by the challenges and triumphs of fatherhood.
Beh Jun spoke of the 1960s and 1970s, painting a picture of life in our remote farming community about 40 miles from Kuching.
Whereas his childhood was carefree and unburdened, his marriage had brought with it a new set of responsibilities he had never fully anticipated.
“I thought I knew what hard work was,” he said, “but nothing prepares you for the kind of work that comes with being a husband and a father.”
He recounted how his wife, Jili – a woman from another village – had been his anchor; her strength and optimism balanced his moments of doubt.
Together, they had built a life on a patch of land inherited from his father. With each step forward, there had been an undercurrent of fear – of loss, of failure, of the unknown.
That fear, he explained, was like a shadow that grew longer as the sun set.
“When you have something to lose,” he said, “you can’t help but think of all the ways you might lose it.”
Love, Shadows, and Fragile Threads
Beh Jun told me how, in the quiet moments of the night, as Jili lay asleep beside him, his mind would race with thoughts he couldn’t banish.
His fears were not unfounded. The land they farmed was unforgiving, its bounty dictated by forces far beyond their control.
A single flood could erase months of toil, leaving them scrambling to survive until the next planting season.
A drought could be equally merciless, turning the soil to dust and the air to despair. Every harvest was a gamble, a test of endurance against nature’s whims.
Yet, it wasn’t just the land that haunted his thoughts. Jili’s pregnancy, he recounted, had been fraught with difficulties. Even simple tasks seemed to drain her strength, and he often found himself torn between tending to the fields and staying by her side.
“I didn’t understand life then,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought life was simple – just work hard, and everything would be fine.”
The fears that consumed him were born not of weakness, but of love – love for Jili, for their unborn child.
Love, he found out, was a double-edged sword. It gave his life meaning but also exposed him to crushing pain that made him regret the indifference of his youth, the way he had dismissed his father’s silent worry during harsh seasons or his mother’s weariness after endless days of labour.
Still, he found solace in small moments – the sound of Jili’s laughter as they shared an inside joke, the first kick of their unborn child. They were fleeting, but they gave him strength and reminded him of why he endured the sleepless nights and the endless toil.
“Every fear I had,” he said, “was because I cared. And because I cared, I fought harder. I worked harder. I loved harder. The fear never went away, but it became a part of me – a part of what made me who I am.”
Resilience in the Face of Loss
The year his first child was born, the harvest had been modest because the dry season had stretched longer than usual.
Beh Jun recalled how family, friends, and neighbours had helped, offering advice, food, and even labour when Jili’s health took a turn during her pregnancy.
“That’s the thing about our community,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You know this because you’re from here.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, nodding.
When his son was born in March, it was as though a new chapter had begun – not just for him and Jili, but for the entire village.
The healthy baby boy brought fresh energy to their lives, a symbol of hope and renewal. By the time the Gawai Dayak festival rolled around on June 1, the boy was just over two months old.
Beh Jun’s life wasn’t easy, but it was a fulfilling one. The fears that once kept him awake at night became motivators, driving him to work harder and think more carefully about the future.
He learned to save what little he could, to plan for lean years, and to find joy in the simple moments – like watching his son take his first steps or listening to Jili hum a tune while sweeping the floor, folding clothes, and doing other chores around the house.
Over time, he came to see that the very things he feared losing were also the things that gave his life meaning. The land, the family, the community – they were fragile, yet they endured because people fought and cared for them and refused to give up.
“There’s a kind of strength,” he said, “that comes from knowing how easily everything can be taken away. It makes you fight harder and appreciate more deeply. It’s not a comfortable way to live, but it’s a meaningful one.”
Lessons from Loss and Gratitude
As our conversation drew to a close, Beh Jun leaned back, his eyes fixed on the mountain that loomed over the village. He seemed at peace, as though sharing his story had lifted a weight he was carrying.
“You know,” he said, “having something to lose – it’s not just about the fear. It’s about understanding what matters. You know that the people and things you cherish are worth the worry.”
His words stayed with me long after I left the village that day. I found myself thinking about the fragility of the things I held dear – family, friendships, ambitions – and how easily they could be taken for granted.
Beh Jun’s life had taught him, and in turn taught me, that fear and love are two sides of the same coin. To have something to lose is to know the value of what you have.
It’s a lesson I carry with me still, a quiet reminder to live with gratitude and to hold tightly to the threads of meaning in this fleeting, fragile life.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at hayhenlin@gmail.com.
