THIS week, we stand between two events that are jewels of a time. One speaks to what is of my soul. The other carries the shades of my spirit. Together, they arrived uninvited — two gifts I did not ask for and could not have planned.
The morning the world aligned
Last Wednesday was Hari Raya Aidiladha. Before the sun was fully in the sky, the Takbir rose — not from a single voice, but from everywhere at once. From the masjid, from the streets, from the jamaah gathered in rows, shoulder to shoulder. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
You only hear this twice a year. And every time, without fail, something happens that nobody can quite explain. The sound enters differently. It moves through the chest, quiets something restless, and when you are in the jamaah — reciting together, voices layered and unified — the boundary between yourself and the sound disappears.
That morning, I told my daughter the lore of Prophet Ibrahim and his son Ismail, as it was narrated to me by my late grandfather. A father and a son. A command that defied every human instinct. A son who said: do what you have been asked to do. You will find me patient. The love, the trust, the sacrifice. It is music — and it is more than music. Sound carrying meaning so dense it cannot be held in words alone. It must be heard to reach where it is going. And, of course… it did.
And then, two days later
— Gawai.
The rumah panjang and the sound of coming home
Gawai Dayak is on Monday. Imagine a longhouse in Ulu Skrang: every sound arriving at once — cheers of returning family members, reunions, elders whose voices carry decades of memory. Ceremonies, music and laughter echoing back in changed form, the space itself alive with recognition and return.
The Iban oral tradition was never written down first — it was spoken, sung and chanted, passed from mouth to ear across generations. What survives is what is heard, remembered in the body before the mind. I picture Inek, now 98, at the heart of the rumah panjang as always. My Iban family — not by blood, but deeper — and my daughter beside me this time. The last Gawai I attended there, Datuk Seri Najib Razak visited Ulu Skrang; it was Apai Vincent, Terry and I who welcomed him. It was an honour, and to return would mean a great deal.
Two sacred sound events: one from the Abrahamic tradition, the Takbir; one from the indigenous heart of Borneo. Both arriving through different histories, yet entering through the same human door. The line between overwhelming and on point — between sound that breaks us and sound that aligns us — is how we allow the doors of the soul to open.
More than hearing — the ear as your body’s compass
The first thing you know about ears is that they are for hearing. They govern more of your inner life than any other. Deep inside the inner ear sits the vestibular system — the mechanism controlling your balance, your spatial orientation; your ability to know where you are in the world. The ear is the instrument by which a human being stays aligned — physically. And, as the Takbir and the longhouse both demonstrate, in ways that go far deeper than that.
The taste of sound
Ask a music producer what he hears when a track plays, and he will describe an entirely different experience. He sees frequencies, feels the space between layers, and notices when the low end clashes with the kick drum or when the vocal sits too far forward. Over time, he trains his ears like a chef refines his palate — until listening becomes a precise, technical conversation rather than passive enjoyment.
The bass drop you feel in your chest is not imagination. Low-frequency sound waves physically vibrate the body before the brain fully registers them. Natural soundscapes — like rain on a Kuching roof or the Sarawak River at dawn — are also shown to reduce stress hormones and support a calmer nervous system. Even collective chanting of the Takbir is often felt as much as heard, creating a shared sense of calm and presence.
People’s hearing changes as they age. From the mid-thirties, the tiny hair cells in the cochlea begin to deteriorate and do not regenerate once lost. Yet many traditions observe something else as well: while outer hearing fades, deeper listening often sharpens. The elder in a longhouse who speaks less but understands more reflects this quiet shift — not romanticised, but consistently observed across cultures that have paid attention long enough.
The fashion trap
Walk through any mall in Kuching today and count the earphones. Every brand has a story about spatial audio and premium sound. What none of the marketing says is that the hair cells inside your cochlea do not regenerate. Ever. The hearing loss creeps — a little more each year, each commute at high volume, each late night with earphones in. By the time you notice, the door has already narrowed. Style is the story. Your hearing is not their concern.
The cotton bud conspiracy
On almost every bathroom shelf in Malaysia sits a jar of cotton buds. The box says: ear care. It is not ear care. The ear canal is self-cleaning. Earwax is not dirt — it is a sophisticated antibacterial, antifungal barrier. When you insert a cotton bud and push inward, you are not cleaning. You are compacting wax deeper, potentially pressing it against the eardrum, creating the very blockage the product claimed to prevent. Doctors call it a solution looking for a problem it ends up creating. The anatomy does not lie.
Digital zen tip — put these on your phone
Your ears deserve the same attention you give your eyes at the optometrist. Mimi Hearing Test — clinical-grade hearing check from your phone; know your baseline before you lose it. DecibelX — real-time decibel meter; know the sound level of every environment you enter. Spectroid — visualises live frequencies on screen; see what you are hearing. Insight Timer — natural soundscapes and frequency-based audio for rest. Free, and worth every minute of silence it gives back.
The practice
Before the earphones go in tomorrow, take five minutes to sit with whatever sound is already there. Remember the Aidiladha morning when the Takbir rose and something inside you fell quiet in the best way. Remember the sound of the rumah panjang, when everyone was home and nothing needed explaining.
The line between feeling overwhelmed and being grounded often depends on what we allow ourselves to receive.
Your ears have always been open — two doors since birth, constantly taking in the world. The question has never been what you can hear, but what you choose to let in.
To all celebrating, may your homes be filled with the right kind of noise, and may your journey home be safe.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune.
