“Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”
– Mark Twain (1835-1910) – the pen name of Samuel Langhorne Clemens – an American author and humorist, best known for his novels ‘The Adventures of Tom Sawyer’ (1876) and ‘Adventures of Huckleberry Finn’ (1884).
IN the small village where I grew up, nestled at the foot of a towering mountain and surrounded by rolling hills and whispering paddy fields, life followed an unhurried rhythm. The village, located in the Serian District, some 40 miles from Kuching, was a place where everyone knew everyone. The mornings began with the crow of roosters, and the evenings were filled with the hum of cicadas and the occasional laughter of neighbours sharing stories under the glow of oil lamps.
Amid this closely-knit community lived Babek. His real name was Ostin, but no one called him that. Babek, they said, suited him better, though no one could explain why. It was as though the name had grown out of the soil itself, as much a part of him as the silent way he moved through the world. Babek was different, and in our village, difference stood out like a lone tree in a cleared field.
From the beginning, Babek was marked by his silence. Born mute, he could not communicate with words, and as a child, I found this unsettling. To me, his muteness seemed like a riddle I could never solve, an absence that made him almost otherworldly. Yet, in hindsight, Babek’s silence was not emptiness; it was full of meaning, though I was too young to understand it then.
Childhood Interactions: A Fear Born of Ignorance
As a little boy attending our mission primary school in the early 1960s, I feared Babek with the unreasoning dread that only childhood can conjure. He was not unkind, nor did he ever harm me. But there was something about him – the way he gestured animatedly with his hands, his expressive eyes that seemed to ask questions I couldn’t answer – that made me uneasy. I often imagined that he wanted something from me, something I wasn’t capable of giving, and so I avoided him.
But avoidance wasn’t easy in our small village. The narrow dirt road that wound through the settlement was the lifeline of the community, and inevitably, I’d find myself crossing paths with him. On those occasions, I’d quicken my pace or dart into the nearest grove of trees, my heart pounding as though I were fleeing a predator. Babek, for his part, rarely paid me any mind. Yet in my young imagination, his silence made me feel as though he were watching and waiting.
The other children were less kind. They mocked him openly, calling him names they knew he couldn’t hear or pelting him with small stones from behind bushes. I never joined them, but neither did I intervene. I watched from the sidelines, torn between guilt and the fear of becoming a target myself. Babek bore it all without complaint, his stoic demeanour only adding to the mystery that surrounded him.
The 1965 Incident: A Silent Act of Kindness
In 1965, the year I turned twelve, everything changed. It was during the paddy planting season, a time when my family relocated to our farm, leaving me alone in the village to continue my schooling. Each weekend, I made the arduous journey between the farm and village, carrying provisions back with me. On one such journey, I found myself struggling up a steep, slippery hill, a heavy load of milled rice strapped to my back in a rattan basket.
The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, its heat magnified by the recent rains. The straps of the basket bit into my shoulders, and my legs ached with the effort of climbing. I was so focused on my struggle that I didn’t notice Babek until he overtook me, his long strides carrying him past with ease. Startled, I froze, watching as he disappeared over the crest of the hill.
A few moments later, he reappeared, walking back down towards me. My first instinct was to turn and run, but before I could act, he reached for my basket. I stood frozen, unsure of what to do as he lifted the load from my back and slung it over his own. Without a word, he turned and began climbing the hill again, his movements fluid and purposeful.
I followed him in silence, too stunned to speak. Babek carried that heavy basket all the way to my family’s house, nearly two miles from where he had first encountered me. When we arrived, he set it down gently by the door and turned to leave. I wanted to thank him, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I managed a clumsy bow of gratitude, which he acknowledged with a firm squeeze of my shoulder before walking away.
That moment stayed with me, not because it was extraordinary, but because it wasn’t. Babek’s kindness was simple, unspoken, and utterly human. In that brief encounter, he shattered the fear and misunderstanding I had carried for years.
Transformation and Village Perception
From that day forward, I no longer avoided Babek. I began to notice the quiet ways in which he contributed to the village. He repaired broken tools, carried heavy loads for elderly villagers, and even tended to the sick when no one else could. His actions spoke louder than any words ever could, and slowly, the village began to see him in a new light.
The children stopped their cruel games, and the whispers of curses and foolishness faded. Babek remained on the fringes of the community, but the edges softened, and he became a figure of quiet respect. For me, he was no longer a source of fear but a symbol of strength and kindness.
Reunion with Babek: A New Chapter
Nine years later, as a young civil servant in Kuching, I acquired a second-hand Honda motorcycle and began making frequent trips back to the village. On one of these visits, I encountered Babek again. To my surprise, he looked healthier and more content than I had ever seen him. The “lost” look that had once haunted his face was gone, replaced by a quiet peace.
Babek led me to his home, a small but well-kept hut within the compound of an elderly widow’s house. The widow, who had “adopted” him like a son, joined us for tea. As we sat together, I saw how deeply they cared for one another, filling the voids left by life’s hardships. Babek had found a place where he belonged, and for the first time, I saw him not as an outsider but as a man who had carved out his own corner of happiness.
Babek’s Legacy
Years later, I learned of Babek’s passing, just a few months after the widow had died. They said he had been heartbroken, unable to bear the weight of losing the woman who had given him a home and a sense of belonging. The news struck me with a force I hadn’t anticipated. I could still see him as I had last seen him: a solitary figure walking away, his back straight and his stride steady, purposeful, as though carrying the burdens of the world with quiet resolve.
In that moment of recollection, I realised Babek had given me far more than a helping hand on a steep hill that day. He had offered me a lesson – one that revealed itself only with the passage of time. He had shown me how to look beyond the surface of things, to understand that silence is not the absence of sound but a space brimming with unspoken truths and quiet meanings.
There is a paradox to silence, one that Babek embodied with every measured step he took. It is both comforting and unsettling, a mirror that reflects the soul’s deepest thoughts. For him, silence seemed a kind of language, one that required no translation yet spoke volumes. And in his company, I learned to listen – not with my ears, but with my heart.
When life’s burdens press heavily upon me, when the noise of the world becomes too much to bear, I think of Babek. I think of his quiet strength, the way he carried his grief not as a shackle but as a testament to his love. His silence was not an emptiness but a vessel, holding all the emotions he could not, or perhaps chose not, to articulate. And in his silence, there was kindness – the type that needed no words to be understood.
The memory of Babek reminds me that the greatest gifts often come from the most unexpected places, and sometimes, they arrive in forms we don’t immediately recognise. A helping hand on a steep hill. A silent farewell. A life lived humbly, yet profoundly. In a world so full of clamour, Babek’s quiet existence taught me that strength does not always roar, and love does not always shout its name.
Now, when I stand at the crossroads of life, uncertain and weary, I try to emulate Babek. I straighten my back. I take a purposeful stride. And I carry forward, knowing that even in the silence, there is meaning. Even in the absence, there is presence.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
