In Honour of Uncle Then Yin Kui (1927–2022)
Written by Wong Fook Yee Sunday, September 14, 2025
On the morning of June 22, 2022, at 5:30 a.m., Uncle Then Yin Kui passed away peacefully in Kuching, Sarawak, at the venerable age of 95. Born in Papar, Sabah, in 1927, his life was a testament to quiet grandeur, enduring service, and familial devotion.
He was predeceased by his beloved wife, Madam Lee Nyit Khiun, who was born in Tawau and also RIP in Kuching. Together, they built a life rooted in love, knowledge, and sovereignty—raising a family
Family Legacy
Son:
· Then Chi Kiong, Philip (wife: Judy Julan Laing)
Daughters:
Then Pit Nyuk, Margaret (husband: Ong Chin Chai, Charlie)
o Children: Christopher Ong Kuan Hui, Benjamin Ong Kuan Yew, Serena Ong Liang Kee
Then Bit Tze, Geraldine (husband: Kueh Kuang Yang, Albert)
o Children: Damien Kueh Lih Yiing, Daphne Kueh Pei-Yi, Della Kueh Pei-Ya, Dazzie Kueh Pei-Qi
Then Bit Ching (husband: Lee Yew Leong)
o Child: Ian Lee Xuan Wei
Final Farewell
The wake service was held on Thursday, 23rd June 2022, at 8:00 p.m. in St. Thomas Cathedral Multi-Purpose Hall B. The funeral followed on Friday, 24th June at 9:00 a.m. at the Anglican Cemetery, 4½ Mile Penrissen Road, Kuching, where Uncle Then was laid to rest with solemnity.
A Neighbourhood of Memory and Mercy
Uncle Then was not merely a family friend—he was woven into the very fabric of our shared history. His childhood home in Papar stood near my mother’s, and in the 1950s, both Then and Wong families migrated to Kuching, where their destinies intertwined once more.
After several years of service in Simanggang (1960–1965), both Uncle Then and my father were posted back to Kuching in 1965. By a stroke of providence—or perhaps a quiet act of will—the Wong and Then families became neighbours again, this time in the Batu Lintang Government Quarters. Uncle Then’s family moved into House No. 67 first, while my father’s family waited for House No. 66 to be vacated. During that interim, we were temporarily housed with the Then family.
Whether this arrangement was a government assignment or a gesture of mercy from Uncle Then, we no longer recall. What remains clear is his kindness to accept the trouble of having Wong family. So two families, seven children, and four adults sharing a modest two-bedroom colonial quarter in 1965.
Life Inside a Two-Bedroom Government Quarter (1965)
The British-built quarters were simple yet dignified—timber-framed, with breezeway windows and deep eaves that offered natural ventilation and a sense of loftiness. But space was scarce. With seven children between the two families, sleeping arrangements spilled into every empty corner: mattresses laid on wooden floors, mosquito nets strung across shared spaces, and belongings tucked into crates. Privacy was a luxury, but laughter and resilience filled the air. Meals were cooked communally, laundry hung outside under tropical sun, and the rhythm of daily life was choreographed with grace and cooperation. It was a season of closeness, where mercy outshone discomfort.
Eventually, our family moved into House No. 66, just opposite Uncle Then’s. It was in this humble home that my youngest sibling, Fook Vui, was born in 1966—delivered at Kuching General Hospital on Rock Road. Auntie Then would often come over during midday, chatting with my mother as she prepared lunch. I recall one afternoon when my mother, while cooking fresh beef soup, confided that the RM1.00 beef she had purchased felt like a costly indulgence. Our family, with more children and a lower salary, lived with tighter means than the Then family. Auntie Then’s presence brought companionship to my mother.
Uncle Then, on the other hand, visited frequently—especially on weekends. He and my father would engage in long conversations about their work. Though I couldn’t grasp the details, my father’s voice—loud and expressive, as is typical of Hakka men—echoed with frustration. He often lamented that he had been “demoted” rather than promoted.
The Impact of Malaysia’s Formation on Sarawak’s Civil Servants
When Sarawak joined Malaya to form Malaysia in 1963, civil servants like my father and Uncle Then experienced a profound shift. The transition from British colonial administration to a new Malaysian government brought changes in leadership, departmental structures, and promotion pathways. Many long-serving officers felt overlooked as new appointees—often from Peninsular Malaysia—entered the system. The sense of honour and sovereignty they had cultivated under British service was challenged by new hierarchies and unfamiliar protocols. For Hakka men like my father, who valued merit and loyalty, this shift felt like a loss of dignity.
In keeping with Hakka tradition, children were expected to stay silent when adults spoke. I never dared to sit close enough to hear their debates, but I sensed their conversations were filled with real questions, real grievances, and real knowledge. Today, those exchanges—though undocumented—would be invaluable historical records of how Sarawak’s civil servants navigated the tides of national transformation.
The Batu Lintang Government Quarters, once a vibrant enclave of civic life, has since been overtaken by modern development. But to us, it remains a sacred dominion of memory, where the beauty of community and the splendour of simpler days still linger in spirit.
Gardens of Flowers and Vegetable
In 1970, Uncle Then purchased a terrace house on Batu Kinyang Road, near the famed Rock Road Restaurant. This new house was just near by with a 5 minutes walk. Determined to cultivate beauty in his new front yard, he sought fertile soil to replace the construction debris left behind. On several occasions, he walked over to our home and carried back buckets of rich black earth—soil that had nourished my mother’s vegetable garden, which she tended to support our family of seven.
Mother’s garden was a symbol of mercy, grown from necessity and nurtured with love of the family. My father’s modest clerical salary could barely sustain us, but my mother’s ingenuity turned our backyard into a source of sustenance and dignity.
Perhaps it was Uncle Then’s new home that inspired my parents to dream of ownership. In 1972, we moved into our own house in Kenyalang—a step forward shaped by the quiet encouragement of neighbour like him.
A Life of Service
Uncle Then Yin Kui dedicated his entire career to the Sarawak Government Department. His work, though humble in title, was infused with honour and perfection. He served not for glory, but for the steady light of civic duty.
Childhood Wanderings and the Beauty of Everyday Grace
Uncle Then and my father both served in Simanggang during the same period, from 1960 to 1965. While my father’s government quarters remained unchanged—located beside the Simanggang public swimming pool—Uncle Then’s family moved once during that time. Their first home was situated near SMK Simanggang, slightly farther from the town centre. By 1963, they had relocated to a second government quarter along Jalan Paya Road, directly opposite the Sing Eng Methodist Church (新恩堂).
I was attending Chung Hua School then, and my walk home often became a slow, meandering journey through the town’s leafy lanes. Sometimes, I would wander to Uncle Then’s house to visit his children—especially Pit Nyuk, who was my age. At that time, the family had only two children: Pit Nyuk and baby Chi Kiong. Geraldine Then Bit Tze was born later in 1963, in their second home.
On several occasions, I stayed for dinner with the Then family. Auntie Then, with her kindness, always served generous portions. I vividly recall one evening when I struggled to finish my plate. Nervously, I said, “Aunty, I can’t finish my food,” fearing she might be upset—as my mother and grandmother often were when food was wasted. But Auntie Then responded with calm and compassion: “Just finish the meat and leave the rice behind.” Her words were filled with understanding, a gentle speech that offered comfort rather than rebuke.
That moment remains a quiet lesson in dignity and grace. Auntie Then (Lee Nyit Khiun), born and raised in Tawau Town, Sabah, carried with her the strength and warmth of her Hakka heritage—a legacy that shaped her character and her care.
Tawau Town is where my own family of four have been living since 1998 till today.
Hakka Chinese in Tawau Town
The Hakka Chinese began settling in Tawau in the early 1900s, driven by hardship and hope. Originating from southern China, they arrived in British North Borneo as farmers, bringing with them a strong sense of community, industriousness, and cultural sovereignty.
Before World War II, Tawau was a modest but thriving town. Hakka settlers cultivated rubber, coconut, and manila hemp plantations, contributing to the town’s agricultural might. By the 1930s, Tawau had grown into a bustling centre with timber shop houses lining Dunlop Street, many owned by Chinese families.
During the Japanese occupation (1941–1945), the Hakka community endured hardship and fear, yet their resilience shone through. Families survived through barter, farming, and mutual aid. After the war, Tawau entered a new era of reconstruction. The Hakka, once farmers with limited formal education, began transitioning into professions requiring academic achievement—teachers, merchants, civil servants—embodying the power of adaptability and the pursuit of perfection.
Today, Tawau remains a town of splendour and memory, where the names of pioneering Hakka families continue to echo with honour.
1963: A Chapter of Vulnerability and Mercy
In the year 1963, our family faced one of its most fragile moments. My 1st sister, Stella Wong, just two years old, was struck by a severe case of diphtheria—a disease that, in those days, carried real fear. She was admitted to Simanggang Hospital (now Sri Aman Hospital No. 1), and my mother, still recovering from the birth of my second sister, stayed by Stella’s side through a week of uncertainty and medical intervention.
Diphtheria in Southeast Asia (1960s)
Diphtheria, caused by the bacterium Corynebacterium diphtheriae, was a serious threat to children in Southeast Asia during the 1960s. It spread through respiratory droplets and could cause airway obstruction, heart damage, and even death. Vaccination campaigns were still gaining traction, and outbreaks were not uncommon in rural towns with limited access to immunization.
In Sarawak, British colonial health efforts had begun to improve medical infrastructure, but facilities remained basic. Simanggang Hospital in 1963 was a modest district hospital with limited surgical capacity. For serious cases like Stella’s, doctors were often dispatched from Kuching. Though records are scarce, it’s possible that a visiting physician—perhaps someone like Dr. Lim Kean Ghee, who later documented Sarawak’s medical history—was involved.
With my mother at the hospital and six other children needing care—including baby Siew Lin, still breastfeeding—Uncle Then and Auntie Then stepped in with grace and power. They welcomed all of us into their home, feeding us, washing our clothes, and offering the kind of mercy that transforms hardship into light. I was in Primary 5 at the time, old enough to witness the splendour of their generosity.
Auntie Then, herself nursing her newborn daughter Geraldine Then Bit Tze, extended her maternal care to baby Siew Lin. In an act of quiet grandeur, she breastfed both infants—an intimate gesture of shared will and compassion that remains etched in our family’s collective memory.
The Day I Tried to Escape
One afternoon during Stella’s hospitalization, a moment unfolded that I’ll never forget. A male medical officer arrived at Uncle Then’s quarters on a bicycle, dressed in a white uniform and carrying a medical bag. Diphtheria is highly infectious, and the hospital wanted to screen the rest of us—six children now living under one roof with the Then family’s two kids.
I was ten years old, the eldest among the children. When I overheard the officer speaking to Auntie Then—mentioning “the kids” in Malay and English—I felt a surge of fear. I imagined painful injections. Without hesitation, I slipped down the stairs and ran, slippers flapping, toward the swampy bushes less than 100 meters away.
But my escape was short-lived. My father, alerted and determined, chased me down on his bicycle. With stern words and a commanding tone, he ordered me to return. I had no choice but to obey.
Back at the house, the medical officer began his routine. I was the eldest, so I was the first “guinea pig.” To my immense relief, he didn’t pull out a needle—but a cotton swab. The diphtheria screening only required a sample from the mouth.
Even greater relief came when the results arrived: none of us were infected. We didn’t have to go to the hospital. Stella’s case remained isolated, and the rest of us were safe.
This chapter in our family’s history is more than a tale of illness—it’s a testament to community, compassion, and the quiet strength of those who step forward in times of need. May our grandchildren read this and feel the light of mercy that once shone so brightly in Simanggang.
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