HELEN—THE IBAN GIRL OF SONG DISTRICT
Gawai 1984, Song District, Sibu, Sarawak
By a sailor of the Royal Malaysian Navy River Patrol, Rajang River
In June 1984, I was serving with the Royal Malaysian Navy River Patrol Boat based in Sibu, Sarawak. Our duty was to patrol the Rajang River.
During the Gawai Dayak festival—the harvest festival of the Dayak people—I was in the Song district. There, I met Helen, an Iban girl. The beautiful lady is in a sarong with silver tinkling at her waist. She smiled at me, and we talked with little language.
She taught me a few words—"Pulai Nuan?" I said, returning to my boat.
Our introduction became close after that. When I was off duty, we often met in Sibu. Behind us was the longhouse on stilts, the brown river, and my patrol boat passing by.
But eventually, our relationship became known to Helen's family. They did not give their blessing. They were worried that their daughter would be taken away to Peninsular Malaysia, far from her longhouse and her people.
Her brother once met me and warned me not to see her again.
Since then, I cut all ties with Helen. It was a painful but honourable decision. I respected her family and her future.
Yet the memories we shared remain fresh in my mind—every year during June, the sound of Gawai in 1984, her beautiful traditional Iban costume with silver coins and red pom-poms, her green earrings, and our moments together by the river in Song. I remember a respect, how a community welcomed a stranger in Navy uniform, and how a young woman taught a sailor that honour is not only about guns and riverboats or ships but also about how you leave a place better that you found it.
That year, I learned that some love stories are not meant to last but to be remembered. These are not just stories of young love but stories of duty, respect, and honour. As a sailor, I learned to sail away. The Rajang River taught me that a river is not a boundary—it is a road. Surabaya taught me that a port is not just concrete and cranes—it is people who wait, even when they know you must leave.
Helen in Song taught me about adat. That sweet girl in Surabaya taught me to love without owning. Both taught me that the uniform I wore—Royal Malaysian Navy—was not only about defending waters but also about representing a nation with manners. I write this not to boast, but to remember. For my children and theirs. So they know that their Atok was once twenty, scared, seasick, in love—and proud to serve.
Some ports we leave, but they never leave us. The echoes of laughter, the warmth of shared stories, and the vibrant colours of local traditions linger long after we depart. Each port holds a piece of our heart, a chapter in our journey that shapes who we are.
In the bustling markets, we find friendships that transcend language, and in the quiet corners, we discover moments of reflection. The scents of local cuisine, the sounds of the waves, and the sights of sunset over the horizon become etched in our memories.
As we sail away, we carry with us the lessons learned and the bonds formed. Each port teaches us something unique, reminding us that while we may leave, the experiences and connections we forge remain forever intertwined with our souls.
So, as we navigate through life, let us cherish these ports, for they are not just destinations but milestones in our personal odyssey.
In Memory: Song, Sarawak—June 1984. Bot Ronda Sungai TLDM.
22 August 2026: 3.27 p.m.
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