‘Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.’
– Norman Cousins (1915-1990); an American journalist, author, and political activist
One sunny afternoon in 1961 when both of us were eight years old, my cousin Ratum and I were playing with a worn-out football on the soccer pitch of our school. We were unaware of the tragedy that had befallen Ratum’s family. His mother had passed away while giving birth at home, and the baby didn’t make it either.
One of our uncles found us and delivered the news. He told us to stop playing and go home. Confused, we didn’t immediately comply, so he gave us a stern look, waiting for us to obey.
You see, in our dialect, the word for “die” or “passed away” is “magan,” which translates to “lost” in English. We were young children with limited vocabulary, and we couldn’t grasp the true meaning of our uncle’s words. I whispered to Ratum, “Can a grown-up get lost?”
Ratum looked puzzled and replied, “I don’t know. We just had lunch at home, and Mama was sleeping. How can she be lost?”
Eventually, we learned that “magan” meant “died.” Ratum’s mother had passed away while we were happily playing football.
You might expect us to be consumed by sadness and shed countless tears. But we were too young to understand the concept of death. A part of me believed that my aunt would wake up at any moment. She didn’t look dead, just pale, and I couldn’t see much of the baby, just its little crinkly face. It didn’t occur to me to ask about the baby’s gender because it didn’t seem important at the time.
As the day wore on, we sought refuge under the family’s stilted house, away from the grieving women upstairs and the growing crowd of relatives who had arrived to both mourn and help with the various chores.
When night fell, we sat on a bare wooden bed in a corner of the cramped house. The mourners and visitors occupied all the available floor space. Despite the sombre atmosphere and occasional outbursts of tears, we couldn’t fully comprehend the gravity of the situation. This was partly because the wake resembled the various happy village gatherings that we were familiar with.
Being restless as we were full of unspent energy, we resorted to a silly game to keep ourselves occupied. Our laughter earned us first a scolding and then a smack on the head from an irritable uncle. My mother, bless her heart, was more tolerant and had a better understanding of our predicament. She quickly intervened by telling us to go to our house to sleep. It was, after all, past our usual bedtime.
The next day was a sombre occasion as we gathered for the funeral. Both Ratum and I were excused from school, along with his older brother who was in Primary 6. Ratum had three younger siblings, aged six, four, and two. It fell upon us to keep them occupied and away from the busy adults during the funeral proceedings. I took them to my house and took care of the youngest one, ensuring she was fed and put to sleep.
In the days following the funeral, life resumed its usual routine for me. School and homework kept me occupied, and I had my fair share of household chores to attend to, from cooking rice to washing pots, pans, and clothes. There was always something that needed tending to, such as sweeping the floor or weeding the garden.
As time went on, I began to lose touch with my cousins, including Ratum. School kept me busy, and I didn’t pay much attention to his family. Even when Ratum returned to our class, he seemed like any other child, giving no indication that something was wrong.
It wasn’t until two and a half years later, when we were both eleven years old in 1964, that I realised something was amiss with Ratum and his siblings. It turned out that he had struggled to learn anything in school. Reading, writing, and even basic arithmetic posed significant challenges for him. Eventually, he dropped out before completing Primary 5.
With hindsight, it is easy now to think or say this or that could have been done to mitigate adverse situations, but the day that Ratum was no more in my class was a big shock and a confusing time for me.
How was I to understand that young children who are too young to fully understand the gravity of a tragedy can still be profoundly affected by the emotional trauma? I remember now that while they did not comprehend the details or the finality of death, they could sense and absorb the distress and emotional turmoil present in their family environment.
I remember the tell-tale signs that the children were perceptive and could pick up on the emotions and reactions of the adults around them. They witnessed the grief, sadness, and distress of their family members, which impacted their emotional well-being. Even if they could fully grasp the concept of death or the magnitude of the loss, they still experienced confusion, anxiety, and a sense of disruption in their lives.
No wonder they exhibited changes in behaviour in response to the emotional trauma they were exposed to. The little ones were more clingy, fearful, and withdrawn. Ratum had difficulty sleeping, I recall, and he often had poor appetite. His younger siblings exhibited signs of distress through tantrums, aggression, or separation anxiety.
Whenever they could, my parents tried to be part-time caregivers of sorts, but the children just missed their mother, and I knew their father was withdrawn and lonely.
We offered them comfort and affection, and provided a safe space for them to express their emotions, even if they could not articulate their feelings verbally. It did not help much. Their loss was too much to bear.
I did not know that the children continued to process the loss over time as they grew older and developed greater cognitive abilities. Ongoing support, patience, and open communication might have helped, but life in the remote rural village in those days was not kind to the unlucky and poor.
One evening, during dinner, my parents mentioned that Ratum’s father was going to remarry. In my innocent mind, I assumed he would marry a widow or a divorcee who could help raise his six children.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, “What kind of woman would want to help raise six children who aren’t her own?”
To my surprise, the woman in question was a recluse whom few people in the village knew well. She was of marriageable age but had lived a secluded life, rarely seen in public. People didn’t treat her unkindly, but I noticed a change in their body language and tone of voice whenever they interacted with her. They whispered about her behind her back.
It took me some time to understand what was happening, and in my young mind, I concluded that she was strange. She had peculiar mannerisms, gesticulating with her hands as she spoke as if emphasising her words. Sometimes, she engaged in one-sided conversations with invisible beings or imaginary friends.
Yet, despite her eccentricities, Ratum’s father saw something in her that other people did not. But then again, perhaps he was desperate or had modest expectations. Or maybe, I am mistaken in my judgment.
Surprisingly, she had the sense to understand the responsibilities that came with marriage when asked if she would like to wed. Eventually, Ratum’s father married her, but by then, I had left the village to pursue further education and later work.
As I reminisce about that woman after all these years, I recall her one redeeming quality — a sweet smile. It was unclear who or what the smile was meant for, but it remained her distinctive feature. While she may not have fit society’s conventional beauty standards, there was a certain allure to her fair complexion and pleasing appearance.
Her humble house was in the northern end of our village and I often passed it on my way to fish in a mountain stream just beyond her family’s charming little orchard and vegetable garden. On a few occasions, I caught glimpses of her hanging clothes on bamboo poles in the backyard. However, whenever she spotted me approaching, she swiftly retreated indoors. I also encountered her a few times washing clothes in the mountain stream, where I would greet her out of politeness, only to have her turn away.
Still, as I looked back while writing this story, I’ve come to realise that sometimes, what we perceive as strange or unconventional may hold hidden qualities or wisdom.
We should not be quick to judge others based on their differences or peculiarities because judgment arises from a human tendency to categorise and evaluate others based on our own biases, experiences, and limited understanding.
Being judgmental limits our ability to see beyond surface-level attributes and understand the complexities of the lives of others. It prevents us from gaining new insights and inhibits personal growth.
A judgmental attitude can prevent us from forming meaningful connections with a diverse range of individuals. We close ourselves off to different perspectives; we miss out on valuable opportunities for learning, growth, and collaboration.
Each person has their own story, and it is through compassion and understanding that we can uncover the beauty and wisdom that lies within them.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
