I first saw the Rajang River through the silver mist of dawn.
At the time, I was emptied by the loss of my grandfather; part of my soul felt as though hollowed, leaving a cold, echoing ache. A friend had told me, “Go to the Rajang. Its waters have a way of carrying sorrow toward the sea.”
Sceptical but desperate for peace, I stepped onto a salt-worn longboat. The boatman was an Iban elder whose face was a map of the river itself, wrinkles branching like winding tributaries. He didn’t ask much; simply steering us into the heart of the current and cut the engine.
We drifted. The world narrowed to the rhythmic lap of water against the hull and the occasional cry of a hornbill overhead. After a long silence, the elder spoke. “Do you know? This river knows how to cry, and it knows how to laugh.”
He then shared a tale that changed the way I look at the moving waters of Sarawak.
Long ago, the Rajang was known simply as the Mother River. In those days, countless communities carved their lives from her banks. The river fed their bodies and harboured their souls. It was believed that when a person died, their spirit drifted downstream to the ocean and ascend the heavens. Rajang was the bridge between the mortal and the divine.
But one year, a darkness fell upon the water. A land dispute erupted between the upstream and downstream communities. Bitter words turned to blades, and for three days and nights, blood stained the water crimson. Many died so quickly that their spirits couldn’t find their way to the sea; tangled in the currents and clogging the river with their grief. The elders’ wailing could be heard in the wind, a sound like a thousand weeping flutes.
Terrified, the leaders sought the oldest shaman. After three days of meditation, he opened his eyes and delivered a chilling verdict: “One must go in exchange.” A life for the spirits, sacrifice to clear the path. But it had to be a gift, not a theft.
For seven days, the riverbanks were silent. On the eighth morning, a young man named Ujang stepped forward. He was a tribeless orphan found drifting on the river as a child. Ujang had no kin, no enemies, and no land to claim. “The river raised me,” he said. “It’s time I give myself back.”
At twilight, Ujang dressed in white and paddled a boat to the deepest part of the river. People lined the banks, breathless and weeping. Before slipping into the water, he shouted something that would echo through the centuries: “Remember, this river is not for shedding blood; it is for sustaining life.”
He vanished into the depths.
Suddenly, the water churned violently, as if a great weight had been lifted. A pillar of water erupted toward the sky, drenching everyone on the shore. When the spray cleared, the surface of the Rajang was covered in white flower petals, drifting serenely downstream. From that day on, the spirits were never trapped again.
As the elder finished his story, we reached the spot where Ujang was said to have leaped. I looked into the deep, dark green water, so thick with history it seemed opaque. In that reflection, I thought of my grandfather. He was a man who always spoke of yielding. He used to say that when the path is narrow, you step back so the person behind you can pass. I used to think that was weakness.
But floating on the Rajang, I finally understood. Ujang didn’t jump because he was weak; he jumped because he saw something larger than himself. He gave his life so the river, the lifeblood of thousands could breathe again. That is the true meaning of Ràng—strength to put the collective dream above the individual’s fear.
The Iban elders told me that when their ancestors migrated, they would stop whenever the water turned muddy. The lesson was simple: Never make a decision when your heart is clouded with anger. Wait for the water to clear.
The Chinese settlers called the river the ‘Golden Sands River,’ but taught their children that the real gold was in the harmony of the riverbanks. If the heart is lost, no amount of gold can save you. The Malay fishermen saw the river as destiny, saying the water flows east and west, seemingly without direction, but it always finds the sea. We do not drift aimlessly; we flow toward where we are meant to be.
When I left the river that day, my sorrow was no longer hollow. It was a vessel, heavy with understanding. I realised my grandfather hadn’t truly left; he was in the wind, in the stories, and in the very water I touched. – DayakDaily
Born in Sibu, 12-year-old Ivan Lim Sheng Jie is an enthusiastic student at SJK(C) Yue Min. He loves dedicating his spare time to a mix of active and intellectual pursuits, namely playing badminton, reading books, and discovering new knowledge.
Ivan is one of the Top 10 winners (Youth category) for DayakDaily’s 2026 Writing Competition with the theme “Sarawak Folklore”.
