I’m writing this in memory of a childhood friend whose distinct habit made a lasting impression on me. Growing up in our village in the 1960s and early 1970s, he had the habit of letting out a slow, tremulous sigh that echoed with the pain of unspoken sorrow, followed by the saddest words: “I’m so lonesome I could cry.”
If you’re under sixty-five, you might not know that “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” is a famous country song by Hank Williams, released in 1949. It was popular in Sarawak well into the 1970s. Perhaps because it reflected his loneliness, my friend loved that song.
Solo, short for Solomon, didn’t go to school beyond elementary because he didn’t pass the Sarawak Common Entrance Exam, which was required to advance to secondary school in the 1960s. His family was so poor they couldn’t afford basic school supplies like exercise books and pencils. Despite his name meaning “peaceful” in Hebrew, none of us called him Solomon; it felt too grand for our small village, far removed from the biblical King Solomon.
Solo intrigued me with his odd behaviour. Behind the melancholy and constant brooding, I often discerned flashes of unusual mental acuity and maturity far beyond his years. For the rest of us boys who were always looking for a good time, Solo was like a wet blanket. He often tried to share his thoughts, but the other kids would laugh or look puzzled, not understanding him. They saw him as strange, a misfit who didn’t belong. This misunderstanding and rejection only deepened his loneliness.
Solo was a gentle soul but didn’t always turn the other cheek when teased cruelly or insulted. With his sharp wit, he had unique ways of getting back at those who mocked him. One day, he asked a particularly mean boy in front of others, “Why don’t you look like your father or your mother?”
The boy, confused, replied, “I don’t know! How would I know?”
Solo then said, “You were swapped with another baby!”
“That’s not true!” the boy exclaimed.
“Yes, there was a mix-up at the hospital,” Solo said calmly, walking away, whistling a tune, leaving the boy unsettled.
I tried to understand Solo but never fully grasped why he was always so lonely. When he was with us, he seemed “somewhere else”, lost in thought or disconnected from his surroundings. While we played games and chased each other through the village, Solo found our activities dull. He was always thinking about deeper questions.
One day, while we were plucking wild ferns in a jungle near our village, he asked, “Why do you exist? What for?”
“My mother gave birth to me!” someone volunteered.
“That doesn’t answer why,” Solo replied. “Something happened before that and long before that … before your parents were born, before your ancestors … before this Earth and the moon and the stars.”
All we could do was listen.
“Murder is evil, right?” he continued. No one answered. “But in war … see those British soldiers who often come here? They are allowed to kill.” Silence. The period was during the armed Confrontation with Indonesia from 1963 to 1966.
After several moments of silence, he asked, “What about memories? Where do they come from?”
“From the head!” someone shouted from behind a bush.
“Are you sure? So, how come we always forget things?” he asked. Nobody answered.
One late afternoon during a school break when I returned to our village from my boarding secondary school in town, I found Solo in his crude treehouse overlooking a little ravine behind his family home.
Despite being a school dropout, he kept learning, teaching himself to read and write better. As I sat beside him, he sighed deeply, closing a well-worn notebook filled with his thoughts, scribbles, doodles, and sketches. Slowly, a single tear ran down his cheek, which he wiped off angrily with a stained shirt sleeve while blowing his nose and mumbling about something in his eye.
“I’m so lonesome I could cry,” he whispered, grimacing in pain that only he knew and felt, his voice barely audible over the wind and rustling of the leaves around us.
In his early twenties circa the early 1970s, Solo moved to Kuching for work but found urban life confusing and disorienting. The noise and fast pace left him feeling isolated. He eventually got a job at a lumber yard. The pay wasn’t as much as he would have preferred, but the weekends allowed him to return home often, even if it meant walking miles through the jungle between the Old Kuching-Serian Road and the village.
Someone once joked that having a girlfriend might alleviate Solo’s loneliness. Solo took the comment to heart and pursued a relationship, but it didn’t work out. His girlfriend struggled to connect with him because he was always lost in thought, making her feel excluded and distant.
Being a profound thinker without high academic learning, he could not reconcile the mundane activities necessary for day-to-day living with the high intellectual thoughts that choked his brain. It was hard for him to relate to “normal” people who often didn’t share his intense introspection. He felt isolated, unable to bridge the gap between his inner and external worlds.
I suspect that Solo did not enjoy being himself because he couldn’t make sense of his life. He constantly questioned why he was the way he was, and nobody could provide answers or understand his internal struggles. This led to persistent confusion and frustration, making it hard for him to find peace or happiness.
I wonder what might have happened if Solo had been properly educated and had studied great philosophers like Socrates, Nietzsche, and others. But he was born in the wrong place and time. Still, I think of him as a philosopher, albeit a lonely one, misunderstood by his peers.
A combination of poverty early in his life and lack of formal higher schooling tilted his destiny towards a direction that he did not want to go, showing how early circumstances can have lasting effects. Nonetheless, that lack did not kill his deep thinking and questioning nature, proving that adverse external circumstances can’t erase what has been hard-wired into the genes and psyche.
I used to fear his loneliness and psychological isolation could have unfavourable effects on his mental and emotional well-being. Yet despite his hardships, Solo persevered in keeping his sanity in whatever way he could. Too poor to buy books and having little or no access to libraries, he read anything and everything he could get including reading old newspapers and magazines.
Over fifty years after our elementary school days, I still think about Solo, especially after he passed away in the early 2010s. Thoughts of him tend to swirl around in my head whenever I deal with tough issues. His existential questions often make me ponder the importance of seeking life’s meaning, hard as they are, encouraging introspection and the pursuit of answers to fundamental questions.
To get some sense of who he was and what he was contending with, I poked around for some knowledge over the years. While my findings won’t earn me a degree in psychology or philosophy, I’m satisfied with the understanding I’ve gained about his situation.
Solo might have experienced existential depression, which involves a deep sense of meaninglessness and constant questioning of life’s purpose. This is common in highly introspective and philosophical people, making it hard for them to connect with others who don’t share their depth of thought.
He was probably very intelligent, but without proper recognition or support, he had a hard time fitting into a world that was not conducive to his cognitive and emotional needs. Gifted people often develop at different rates emotionally and socially compared to their intellectual growth, which can make it hard for them to relate to their peers.
His introspective nature suggests he was also very introverted and possibly socially anxious, making social interactions draining and uncomfortable, and pushing him to retreat into his thoughts instead of forming meaningful connections.
Solo might have been neurodivergent, possibly on the autism spectrum or showing traits associated with it. Neurodivergent people often have unique ways of thinking and seeing the world, which can lead to social difficulties and misunderstandings.
Helping Solo would have likely required a combination of mental health support, social skills training, and finding communities where he could connect with like-minded people. Understanding and accepting his unique way of thinking and feeling would have been crucial in helping him find fulfilment and build meaningful relationships.
Though he has passed away, he remains in my heart and mind, leaving behind a legacy of questions. As a journalist for over 50 years, I often think, “What would Solo ask?” whenever I face an issue that requires intense mental effort.
Also, in some ways, Solo had “infected” me with his loneliness, but I’m grateful for the memories and the legacy he left me.
In times of extreme exhaustion and when I feel too lazy to ask questions, his face would sometimes appear in my mind’s eye as if reminding me to stay curious. For the day we stop being interested in life, we will leave life, or life will leave us.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
