The great fire of Kuching
I once had a conversation with a close friend who told me that the Georgian and Victorian cityscape, so iconic to London’s identity—is actually the result of the Great Fire of London. Before the fire, the city was a dense warren of wooden buildings and narrow lanes. The disaster forced a massive architectural overhaul. I was amazed by how the consequences of a single incident from hundreds of years ago still shape the character of the city today.
Now… as I walk through the streets of Kuching, I find myself observing its buildings with the same sense of historical curiosity. I can’t help but notice the colonial structures—remnants of British imperial architecture—some still standing proudly.
Kuching, too, had its own Great Fire. It broke out on January 20, 1884, starting in a house at the corner of Carpenter and China Street. To learn more, I picked up a copy of Sarawak Long Ago by W.J. Chater from the Borneo Cultural Museum. What I’ll share below is drawn directly from that book:
“The flames burst through the roof of the house and, fanned by a strong breeze, started to spread rapidly down one side of China Street. As the gambling houses on the opposite side were also made of wood, soon both streets were engulfed in flames... The fire gradually subsided as a result of rain. Within five hours, the raging fire had reduced half of Kuching town to ashes. Almost all the buildings destroyed were made of wood.”
Shortly after this devastation, Rajah Charles Brooke issued an order:
“In future, all wooden shop houses shall be built of bricks.”
Fast forward to today, and you’ll find that every law, every institutional order, is the fossil of a past mistake. Sometimes, they’re called lessons, sometimes, bluntly - blunders. I often play a game with history—tracing a single thread and discovering the vast world hidden behind it. And if I may postulate: buildings made entirely of wood are so vulnerable that given time, fire is inevitable.
From a probabilistic standpoint, cities built predominantly of wood are statistically destined for combustion. Given enough time and population density, the likelihood of fire approaches certainty. When you zoom out with a long enough lens, the Great Fires of London and Kuching weren’t aberrations, but the inevitable meeting point of flammable design and the entropy of chance.
All it takes is one mistake on an inauspicious night—a tipped lantern or whatever to reveal the fragility of the entire structure. For an individual who lives 80 or 100 years, events like this seem like “Black Swans.” For a city however, institutionally they’re predictable surprises. Sooner or later.
And if we, as individuals, are part of institutions—part of cities, families, companies, nations, citizens of the earth! We are not islands - how do we approach life?
As for me, my heart and emotions were once made of wood. Easily ignited and ruined. One or two mistakes were enough to shake me entirely. Gradually, I’ve learned that devastation can also instruct. The right response is not to retreat but to adapt. We live in tribes, communities, institutions—expect the "big fire" to come.
Yes, buildings made of wood are romantic and ancient. But they catch fire quickly. Perhaps that’s why, out of so many incidents in history, only a few are remembered. Precisely because they burned on such a scale, they left a mark deep enough for us to remember. Not just for their blunder—but for their flames that seemed never to end.
Tragically—and beautifully—they had to be reborn.
However, as an individual, you don’t have to build a heart made entirely of bricks. I have layers of bricks insulating the flammable heart of mine—it still burns from time to time, for someone or something. It’s just that the ignition point is slightly higher than before ;)