‘We are born into a world of suffering, and it is what we do with that suffering that defines us.’
Albert Camus (1913-1960), a French philosopher, novelist, and essayist, best known for exploring how human beings search for meaning in a world that often feels cruel, indifferent, and unjust — themes that closely echo the life story you shared
AS if the universe had a dark sense of humour, Bitus was born not in the safety of a home, nor with the gentle hands of a midwife to guide him into the world. Instead, his first cries echoed through the jungle, in the shade of a tree that stood between his family’s paddy field and the dense wilderness.
I wouldn’t come to know of this for another fifteen years, as I wasn’t yet born, but the story of his birth became a family legend, retold during gatherings and festivals. I first heard it around 1959 or 1960, though the exact year escapes me now.
Bitus, they said, was born in 1938, three years before the Japanese invaded Sarawak during the Second World War.
Our remote village, tucked away in the Serian District, some forty miles from Kuching, was spared the direct violence of war.
Yet, hardship in other forms had found various ways to sink its teeth into our lives. Hunger, disease, and the merciless demands of survival were constant companions. That Bitus was born amidst such harshness seemed almost prophetic, as though life had decided early on that his path would be one of trials and tribulations.
Born into Hardship
In those days, people didn’t track time the way we do now. In our village, very few people had clocks or calendars. Life was measured by the church bell — six in the morning and six at night — and by the slow, dependable turns of the moon and the harvest. Pregnancy wasn’t a precise countdown so much as a waiting game: nine months, give or take.
So Bitus arrived without warning, catching his mother completely off guard. One moment, she was resting in the shade, trying to catch her breath; the next, she was on the ground, her waters broken, the baby already on his way into the world.
Alone and labouring in the jungle, she screamed for her husband, who was working at the far end of the farm.
Neighbours heard the commotion and forced their way through the undergrowth to help. Their farm lay ten miles along rugged jungle tracks from the village, and the nearest clinic was over ten miles away in Serian town.
There was no doctor, no midwife, and no hope of reaching help in time. He was born into the scramble and the shouting — a tiny, wailing bundle of life, delivered in the thick of the jungle, as though the world had decided to test him from his very first breath.
The First Loss
By the time Bitus was six — a year before Japan finally surrendered to the Allied forces — death had already come for him, quietly and without apology.
His father’s mother, the family’s stern anchor and his surest comfort, died in her sleep. One moment she was simply there, as constant as the house itself, and then she wasn’t. Bitus was too young to grasp what it meant to be gone forever, so he did what children do when the world breaks its own rules: he went looking for her.
For days he wandered through the spaces she used to fill, as if she might be waiting behind a doorway or sitting in the yard. He studied the places she had left behind — where she sat, where her things were kept — and felt that something essential had been torn from the household. The silence was heavy, pressing against the walls and settling in his chest.
In the village, strict taboos forbade children from attending funerals. So Bitus was kept away from the burial, as though shielding his eyes might soften the truth. No one offered him an ending, or permission to grieve. He was simply expected to accept the absence, to swallow it whole.
That may have been the cruellest part: grief arrived before understanding. His mind was confused, but his body knew. Life went on, though the person who made him feel safest was suddenly gone.
I didn’t know this then — not really. But years later my favourite relation, Uncle Sulas, told the story, and he told it so carefully that it lodged in me like a thorn. My chest ached for days afterward, as though the tale had reached across time and touched something raw in my own life.
Uncle Sulas was one of the finest storytellers in the village, known for his timing, his phrasing, the way he could hold a crowd without effort. But this story was different. He didn’t perform. He spoke as if handling something fragile. And by the end, you didn’t just understand what happened to Bitus — you could feel the empty space beside him, where a grandmother should have been.
The Jungle Takes His Father
At the age of eleven, Bitus was confronted with a tragedy that cast a long, dark shadow over his life. His father, a devoted and hardworking man who did everything to provide for their family, had ventured deep into
the jungle to gather wild honey from a majestic, towering tree. It was a task that demanded not only skill but also an iron nerve, yet even the most seasoned climbers were vulnerable to the relentless dangers of the jungle. In a fleeting moment of misjudgement, his father slipped, and in an instant, Bitus lost the anchor of his world.
His body was discovered two agonising days later, cold and lifeless, a heart-wrenching reminder of a love that was abruptly cut short. The grief that enveloped Bitus was suffocating, a heavy blanket that stifled any glimmer of hope. For three long days, his cries echoed through their home, a heartbroken symphony not only for his own loss but for his mother, now burdened with the unbearable weight of widowhood. The very jungle that had once cradled his birth had ripped away the man who was his guiding light, leaving behind a silence that felt too profound to endure.
A Mother’s Silent Suffering
The year that followed was one of quiet despair. Bitus’ mother, once a strong and vibrant woman, began to fade. She spoke little, her eyes carrying a distant sorrow that no one could reach.
At just twelve, Bitus was too young to bear the burden of caring for her alone. His grandfather, though still alive, was old and frail, unable to shoulder the responsibilities that had once belonged to his son.
Together, they did what they could to nurse her back to health. She recovered, but the spark that had once animated her was gone. In its place was a haunting emptiness, a shadow of the woman she had been.
The Breaking Point
By the time Bitus was sixteen, life had hardened him. He had become the backbone of his family, taking on the responsibilities his father had left behind. But fate, unrelenting in its cruelty, dealt him yet another blow. While repairing the wall of their farmhouse, he slipped from a ladder and broke his left arm.
The journey to the Serian Health Clinic was long and arduous, but he managed to get his arm set in a cast. For weeks, he was rendered nearly useless in the fields, forced to rely on his right hand to manage the work. The harvest that year was poor, and the family’s already precarious existence grew even more fragile.
The Flood
A year later, during the rainy season in December, disaster struck again. Heavy rains transformed the jungle into a roaring beast of water and mud. A flash flood tore through the river that flowed along the edge of the village, sweeping away anything in its path.
In the chaos, Bitus spotted a young boy caught in the raging current. Without hesitation, he plunged into the floodwaters, fighting against the force of nature to save the child. Although he almost drowned, he emerged shaken but triumphant, the boy clinging to him like a lifeline.
When asked later how he had found the courage, Bitus shrugged. “I didn’t think,” he said. “I just acted. There wasn’t time to be afraid.”
“And if it happened again?” a friend pressed.
“Depends,” he replied, his voice tinged with weary humour. “I’m only brave when my brain doesn’t stop me.”
A Life of Trials
Bitus’ life continued to be brutal, unrelenting, and marked by loss. Yet, he endured. The jungle, with its dangers and demands, shaped him as much as it had scarred him. Every challenge he faced was a test of his resilience, and though he was often battered, he was never entirely broken.
The one defining trait that I noticed about Bitus was his devotion to his mother. Through his words and actions, it was easy to see that the mother was everything to him. Uncle Sulas attributed it to the fact that the mother gave birth to him in great hardship.
His story was not without hope, though. For even in the darkest moments, Bitus found a way to keep moving forward. The world seemed determined to crush him but, somehow, he stood his ground stubbornly, his way of giving life the middle finger.
In his quiet strength, there is a lesson for all of us. Life may be brutal, but it is also precious. And sometimes, simply surviving is an act of defiance, a way of saying, “I am still here.”
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.
