‘The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.’
Martin Luther King Jr. (1929-1968). He was an influential American civil rights leader who played a crucial role in the American civil rights movement from the mid-1950s until his assassination in 1968.
In the heart of our tight-knit farming community, there lived a remarkable man named Junas. Said to be born circa 1920, Junas had witnessed nearly a third of a century unfold before my birth in 1953. My mother, then a spirited 21-year-old, often spoke of him with reverence and nostalgia. Due to some quirk in the family tree, she referred to him as a distant granduncle despite his relatively young age. He was a figure of quiet resilience, a man who had weathered the many storms of life with determination and grace.
By the time of my birth, Junas was around 33. At that age, he was already marked not just by the passage of time, but by the trials and triumphs that had shaped him. My mother’s stories painted a vivid portrait of a man who embodied the very essence of our community’s spirit. Junas was not merely a relative. He was a fine example of the strength and perseverance that defined our lineage.
His story was intertwined with the larger history of the world, particularly World War II and its aftermath. In 1941 when the Japanese invaded Sarawak, our village was a remote jungle settlement, about 40 miles from Kuching town. The invaders had seemingly overlooked our small community, leaving us largely unscathed — except for Junas, that is. At the age of twenty-one, he was forcibly taken by a platoon of Japanese soldiers while collecting sago worms.
He could never pinpoint the exact location of the place where he was taken, only that it was an army camp near a river. Although not a prisoner, he had to follow orders as a cleaner. His main job was washing the muddy army trucks and motorcycles — a back-breaking job as he had to carry buckets of water up and down the riverbank all day.
Had the Japanese fed him properly, he might have stayed on, but the soldiers themselves were facing tight food rationing. Thus, after two weeks of always feeling hungry, Junas had enough of the hardship. One evening, he slipped into the river and disappeared into the jungle on the other side, clutching a small piece of flat steel stolen from under a broken truck. He spent a whole day rubbing and grinding the metal on a river rock, fashioning it into a knife. It was crude but the resulting blade was sharp.
Over the years, the account of his journey home underwent such embellishment that it morphed into a narrative befitting a formidable warrior, a characterisation that Junas did not match. His version of the story as told to my parents was simple and direct.
He spent a few days finding his way through the jungle, keeping close to the river most of the time because he needed to drink. On the third day, he came upon a Malay fisherman casting a net in the river.
The compassionate man hosted Junas overnight and then escorted him upriver to a neighbouring village. There, Junas gathered crucial details about the area’s geography, enabling him to determine the path leading back to his home.
Eight years passed after the Japanese forces surrendered in Sarawak on September 11, 1945. As the Allied troops — comprised of British and Commonwealth soldiers — returned to reestablish order, Junas inherited his family’s farmland, a legacy left in the wake of great loss. Just five years prior, he had buried his father, and then he faced the heart-wrenching death of his mother, leaving him alone to navigate the complexities of adulthood in a world still reeling from conflict.
The land he inherited was far from ideal — part swamp, part hill — but it became his sanctuary, the place that sustained him. Though flawed, this land was all he had, and he tended to it with fierce devotion, often at the expense of his well-being.
Junas exuded a rare charisma that captivated those around him. Among the youth of the village, he was a figure of admiration and reverence. His enigmatic charm seemed to emanate from the extraordinary tales of his daring evasion from Japanese captors. But whatever it was that made the youth in awe of him, he was known throughout the community for his quiet strength and confidence.
His rugged appearance told tales of years of toil; the sun-etched lines on his face and the calluses on his hands were proof of hard labour and determination.
Yet beneath this stoic exterior lay profound sorrow. The loss of his mother had left a haunting emptiness within him, a wound that never truly healed. He had been a late-in-life blessing for her and was acutely aware of her fragile health. In his youth, he took it upon himself to protect her, ease her burdens, and fulfil the promises he made during his early school days.
As he sat in the quiet of his paddy fields, Junas often reflected on the dreams he had for his mother — dreams that went unfulfilled when she passed away before he could realize them. This disappointment weighed heavily on him; he felt like a puzzle missing a crucial piece, forever incomplete.
Amid these trials lingered another profound regret in Junas’s heart: the missed opportunity to give his mother a grandchild. He remained unmarried before her passing, and the thought of her never knowing the joy of a grandchild weighed heavily on him, a reminder of the love that could have been shared.
Once, he tried to get close to the daughter of a pepper farmer at the far end of the village. She wasn’t very pretty but was not unattractive either. Less than a month later, he gave up, saying she was too giggly, couldn’t engage in meaningful conversation, and seemed obsessed with pretty sarongs.
Junas thought of himself as a simple, straightforward man. All he wanted was a healthy woman who wasn’t foolish or insane and could bear and raise his children.
“I don’t think those are too much to hope for,” he told my father during one of his rare visits.
In 1960, when I was seven and in Primary 1, he was still unmarried at 40. One day, during one of his visits, I blurted out, “Alak, you’re getting old!”
In our Bukar sub-dialect of the Bidayuh language spoken in the Serian District (now Serian Division), “alak” means “great-grandpa” or “great-granduncle.”
Alarmed, my mother cried out, “Child! Mind your manners!”
But Alak merely laughed, gesturing with his hand to reassure her that he was not offended at all.
“Well, of course, I’m getting old!” he said. “That’s what happens to all humans. We get born; we live; and then we die.”
“Alak, I don’t want you to die. I want you to have a wife!” I said earnestly.
Again, he laughed, and so did my parents. This time, his laughter was longer and louder, coming from deep within. He laughed until his eyes glistened with tears.
One rainy morning, my father and I accompanied by a widow from a quarter mile downstream, visited Junas. The husband of the widow, Aunt Kala, had passed away about a year prior and she had just moved her farm to the unfamiliar area. She needed help and advice on reviving her struggling garden but we were not in any position to help. My father advised her to get help from Junas but she did not want to go alone for fear that it would give rise to unfounded rumours and vicious whispers.
True to his helpful character and, just as we expected, Junas assured Aunt Kala that he would go to her farm in the afternoon and with that, she returned to her farmhouse.
Over time, a bond formed between Junas and Aunt Kala, built on mutual respect and understanding. They worked together on their farms — always in the presence of other people — supporting each other through the hardships.
The rainy season eventually ended, and fine weather returned, rejuvenating the land and bringing new life to the farming area. The community emerged stronger, having faced adversity together and, by then, a much more special connection had developed between Junas and Aunt Kala. It was quite obvious to the adults around them, I was told.
Soon after the end of the paddy harvest season that year, after all the customary social formalities had been fulfilled, Junas and Aunt Kala moved in to live together as husband and wife.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
