bukansastra

Joko Pinurbo, Going Home

2006-12-25T18:47:00.000-08:00

Joko Pinurbo, Pacarkecilku (My Little Girlfriend), Magelang: Indonesiatera, 2002.

Going Home

This May I made time to go home.

Just as my father asked: ‘Grandma misses you.

Come home!’

Sometimes time is so simple:

Mum was setting up sunset on the window.

Grandpa was rolling out the rain on the porch.

Dad was picking me up from some train station I

don’t know where.

Who’s in the bathroom?

The sound of children singing.

Grandma is being dead.

Her body is laid out peacefully in the

Prayer room and is watched over her favourite dolls.

‘Hey! That bastard has come back!’ said the toy

lion which still looked fierce and shook when I

stroked its fur.

Dad still hasn’t arrived. My taxi is already

waiting out the front.

Goodbye, grandma. Goodbye to everything.

Take care at home. My regards to father.

On the way to the station, I saw father

sitting in a becak. He looked older. The becak

was moving quickly. From the window of the taxi;

I kissed my hand and then waved;

he also kissed his hand and then waved to me, while

telling me to take care.

Time was so simple that I didn’t know

that drops of time were melting

from my eyes. ‘Your late grandma was

still able to catch this taxi yesterday’, said the

quiet taxi driver. He was an

old teacher of mine.

(p.18-9)

Joko Pinurbo, Utan Kayu

2006-12-25T18:44:00.000-08:00

Joko Pinurbo, Pacarkecilku (My Little Girlfriend), Magelang: Indonesiatera, 2002.

Utan Kayu

for Godot

One night at Utan Kayu I didn’t meet you.

I didn’t meet anyone.

There was nothing but chairs upon tables.

The café was closed. Only part of the night

remained. I heard the rats making music

with plates, glasses and spoons. ‘I saw a great

performance tonight’, Brother Cat reported.

Where were you? Usually you are sitting looking

pretty in the corner, drinking the wind, smoking.

You looked happy when I arrived.

‘Hey. Where you have been?’

It turns out you are in the theatre.

You are putting the words back together

Which are scattered across the floor. You

are crying: hiding your face in the change room.

The next night I didn’t see you

again in the audience. You didn’t appear

once more on stage. ‘Hey, where you have

gone?’ I call out repeatedly.

(p.9)

Joko Pinurbo, The Nightwatchman

2006-12-25T18:42:00.000-08:00

Joko Pinurbo, Pacarkecilku (My Little Girlfriend), Magelang: Indonesiatera, 2002.

The Nightwatchman

The nightwatchman still faithfully guards the large

house which its own has never lived in.

He loves that empty house and feels

as if he has united with its silence.

One night, he caught a criminal who had tried

to enter the house without his permission.

He couldn’t let the house by disturbed. Why? Well, he

felt he had united with it’s silence.

The next day the nightwatchman was no-

where to be seen. He had been arrested by the

police for beating up the house’s owner.

(p.36)

Joko Pinurbo, Dangdut

2006-12-25T18:40:00.000-08:00

Joko Pinurbo, Pacarkecilku (My Little Girlfriend), Magelang: Indonesiatera, 2002.

Dangdut

/1/

We are truly great dangdut fans.

We love shaking, getting words drunk –

chasing dang dang dang but catching dut

is oh so hard.

/2/

The dancers have collapsed, lying down one by

one in the lines of your poem.

Night is tired and morning will be here soon, but you

keep on singing and dancing in the gaps of your poem.

You look unstable, but you say, ‘I’m not drunk.’

Maybe I have to stick with you longer.

Joko Pinurbo, Three Poems

2006-12-25T18:32:00.000-08:00

Three poems from Telpon Genggam [Mobile Phone], Jakarta: Kompas, 2003, pp.6-8. (translated by Andy Fuller, 12.3.06)

The Call Home

When he woke he immediately turned on his

mobile phone: he hoped for a message. He was still

sleepy. His eyes were still clouded with

dreams. It was still dark.

Actually, what’s the point in turning on one’s mobile

so early in the morning? At the most, there would only

be some trivial message. How did you sleep? Was your

sarong comfortable? You’ve forgotten about me, have you?

I waited for a long time at the graveyard.

The adzan broke out. Full of rain. He checked his

phone. Srangely, his father had sent a message. Mother is sick.

She misses you a lot. Grandma has disappeared

for three days. Grandpa’s grave has been cleaned. Father’s

sarong has been stolen. Our debt is stable. The jackfruit

tree beside the house has fallen down. Can you come home?

Can you get permission from your mobile phone?

The message ended. There was music. Mobile phone

sung a song by The Beatles: Mother…

The Sea

Sometimes, you need to take your mobile phone

out walking or for a picnic. Perhaps to the beach. To broaden

its horizons. To extend its reach.

At the beach it fell in love with the sea. It called the

sea’s name repeatedly, but the sea

swallowed up the sound of its voice.

I lay down upon the sand, while my mobile took

photographs of the clouds and water; recording the

sound of the wind and waves.

‘Please, enjoy practicing to die’, it said. ‘I want to

stay awake all night, listening to the sea whispering.’

Now, when I am sick, my mobile likes to tease me

with the sound of wind and waves. Then, it shows me

the profile of the shy moon. A profile of death

determined by time. It whispers, ‘Remember, you’ve already

practised dying at the beach.’ Suddenly I hear the

thundering waves.

Goodbye

He laid his mobile phone down in its coffin

and then sent it out to sea.

A.Kohar Ibrahim, The Old Man and the Bird Cage

2006-12-22T04:09:00.000-08:00

first published in Batam Post, 17.09.06

After finishing his breakfast he walked slowly towards the veranda. He walked to the birdcage in the left corner. As soon as he started to approach it, the bird greeted him: ‘morning, sir. Morning, sir.’ The myna lifted up its right claw and shook its head a couple of times. It then repeated its greeting. The old man happily whispered, ‘morning…’.

Then the planted his buttocks into the rattan chair and sat facing the myna bird which watched on in amazement. The old man continued to smile, fitting in with his famous nickname – ‘The Smiling Strongman’ - who likes cages. He loves birds – but those which are kept in cages. He’d loved them since he was a child. He and he still loved them now, during his old age.

He had never forgotten the first time he caught a Java finch by using sap. He threw the bird into a small cage it protested like crazy, flapping all over the place. But he couldn’t have cared less. He had even started to smile. Unsatisfied with using sap to catch birds, he switched to using a slingshot. Occasionally, the bird would be injured or almost killed, but nonetheless, he’d throw them into the cage. ‘Cop that!’, he’d say every time. He’d always be smiling and his eyes would be shining with satisfaction.

He not only caught birds using his own traps and slingshots, but also through swapping ideas with other bird lovers. Another kind of activity, that not only made him feel satisfied, but also brought in goods and money. Catching birds from one end of Indonesia to the other was very profitable. To do so, he needed a large amount of space – both indoors and outdoors. Most importantly was that the birds remained in their cages and could be kept under surveillance. Under his watchful gaze. Always accompanied, of course, by his smile. Those who looked after his birds, whether his relations or his employees were always kept busy. They worked beneath the gaze of the strongman’s eyes.

It seemed as if everything was going orderly. Everything seemed relaxed and secure. Until the winds of change began to blow. There was a foul air and epidemic on the on the one hand, and on the other, there was the disaster of him losing his sense . The atmosphere changed quickly and dramatically. The orders that he gave only made matters more chaotic.

Many of the caged birds escaped. Some were unlucky and died. The only one that remained its cage was the loyal myna bird.

A few people who knew him were surprised, while others could comprehend what was going on. Some had even long predicted that this would happen. One has to remember that during the great era, when he was known as ‘the smiling strongman’, he had done some amazing things. At that time, he was calmly hunting, trapping and catching hundreds of thousands of innocent people. He then locked them up in concentration camps. It was never known how many people were killed just like that – as if one was shooting a bird. Nor does anyone know how many were buried alive after digging their own mass grave.

All of this was done beneath his watchful gaze and ever-present smile. He only did it to prove how powerful he was and to prove how much he was feared. Life was simple.

So, it was only the myna bird that was still friends with him. It was a symbol of loyalty and subservience to him. But, was it really loyal to him? It was in a cage after all. When the man’s time would come, the bird itself wouldn’t worry about stopping breathing. Moments before the old man’s last breath.

In front of the large building with the large front yard, the sound of voices became louder and louder. The sounds were very different from any other previous sound. It was the first time he had heard that kind of voice since he had stopped being able to go where he wanted. Except for when he was out on the veranda, next to the birdcage, he would always be under tight supervision.

The man smiled when he heard the myna bird call out ‘not good. Not good.’ Whatever happens, though, he still felt like a ‘strongman’ who could face any situation while smiling. He knew that he still held the most powerful weapon: lies. Lies would cover up his condition of his health. He claimed that he was sick. And sick people can’t be taken to court. To strengthen his claims, he started to act as if he was truly sick. He couldn’t have cared less for all the crimes he had committed and for the demands the demonstrators were yelling about in the nearby streets.

And right up until that moment, sitting down, facing the myna bird, he was still trying to prove that he was sick. An act of falsehood that could be over as soon as he was visited by the Angel of the Death and Lord Time. Two judges that no one can escape from.

Translated by Andy Fuller, Richmond, 2.10.06

Basoeki Goenawan, Sea Journey

2006-12-18T22:01:00.000-08:00

first published as "Perjalanan Laut" in Konfrontasi, No.4, January-February, 1955.

He quickly made his way to the port of the small island where he had been visiting his sick mother. The cold wind slapped his pale face. With all of his energy, he fought against the sea wind and walked towards the boat which would take him back to the capital city. At the port he was greeted by a man whose face was disguised by the darkness which had enveloped the harbour.

‘Mr.Mahmud?’, asked the man.

‘Yes, I am Mahmud.’

‘Come with me. I’ve been waiting a long time for you. I’m the skipper of the boat which will take you away.’

Mahmud didn’t say anything and then started walking with the man towards the boat. There, he was greeted by a seaman who shook his hand.

‘Let’s get on board,’ the seaman said.

Mahmud thought that the boat was too narrow and small for a trip in such weather. It would be too easily shaken in the strong winds. He trembled.

‘You’re not afraid are you?’, asked the skipper, smiling. ‘Most people would be.’

‘I’m used to sailing’, answered Mahmud.

‘Good, good,’ said the skipper.

There were the only three people on the boat.

‘Are you still going to wait for more passengers?’, asked Mahmud.

‘No. We will leave now. I don’t usually take many passengers. I only take a few. But all are carefully chosen.’

Shortly afterwards, the small boat left the port. ‘In such a strong wind, we should arrive at the capital city in three hours’, thought Mahmud to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

After an unknown length of time, Mahmud woke up. He checked his watch, but it had stopped working as soon as they had left the port. Now night had already passed and the sun was breaking through the fog and the clouds.

‘This is crazy,’ he thought to himself. ‘We must have been at sea for at least eight hours.’ He opened the window and stuck his head out. He could see nothing but water, clouds and fog floating before him. He had to take an exam this morning. He became angry as he’d been waiting for this day for months. Rage overwhelmed him. He closed the window and then went to see the skipper and his assistant. He asked why they were yet to arrive at the capital city, in spite of the strong winds. Sure, he wasn’t a sailor, but he knew that this was extraordinary – unless, of course, the boat was damaged. The skipper just shrugged his shoulders in response to Mahmud’s question.

‘Sir! When will we arrive at the capital city?’

‘Six hours ago we were close to the capital city. But we didn’t want to enter the port, so we just kept sailing,’ answered the assistant. And then he laughed.

‘Life in the capital city is festering like a boil. We can’t stand being too close to it,’ continued the skipper.

‘I don’t care,’ answered Mahmud. ‘If you don’t like the city, you don’t have to live there. But you have the obligation to take me to the port. That is my right.’

‘Oh,’ said the skipper. ‘Only crazy people talk about rights. You’re not crazy are you?’

Mahmud wanted to hit both of them.

‘Why aren’t you thinking about what is important to me? I’ve got a test this morning.’

‘Hahahahaha,’ the assistant laughed loudly. If the examiner arrives and he doesn’t meet you, he will not die. The test can be taken some other time, right? Why must you worry about such matters?’

Mahmud realized that he couldn’t talk with such people. Instead, he thought that he should just try to be patient. ‘Slowly but surely, I will be able to overcome this problem.’

‘Where are we going, captain?’, he asked trying to be friendly.

‘Thankfully, you have calmed down now,’ said the skipper. ‘That is good. Anger is not good for one’s health. As such, I don’t like people who are angry all the time. You asked me, “where are we going?”, and I want to answer this question. But remember, I’m the skipper of this boat and skippers don’t like to be thought of as being stupid. On the other hand, your question is difficult to answer. For centuries, people have asked themselves, where are they going. Millions of people have died with this question in their hearts: “where are we going?” And now you are asking the same question. You are polite and are no longer angry with me. So, I will try to answer your question.’

The skipper was quiet for a moment.

‘We are sailing towards nothingness. We must keep sailing until we no longer exist.’

‘Yes. That’s right,’ echoed the assistant. ‘We will continue sailing until we no longer exist. You’d like that as well, wouldn’t you? In my case I’d really like it. For example, I hate having a stomach. If I didn’t have one, I wouldn’t have to waste so much time eating. Not to mention all the other things that I don’t like having to do. We are forced to do so many things just because we have all these different organs which must be maintained. Wouldn’t it be better without them? As such, I’d prefer not to exist.

‘We will keep sailing until we don’t exist – except of course if the boat is damaged,’ said the skipper. ‘So, you can choose to go on living, but you will become crazy and will be placed in a mental asylum. So, the choice is up to you.’

‘That’s no choice,’ said Mahmud and he became angry once more because of the nonsense being uttered by the two men.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ said the skipper. ‘Wherever you go doesn’t depend on what you choose, but on sudden events which cannot be predicted. But, I just want to say that each possibility is equally likely.’

‘That’s not what I mean,’ said Mahmud angrily. ‘If one cannot make the choice freely, then it is no longer a choice. But an act of coercion. Take me back! I want to be free!’

‘Ah, don’t be so stupid. I’m sure you are a wise person. You should think about this more seriously, rather than going on whining. You must be thankful to us. We have made a great effort to help you, but you do nothing but shout at us. Try to understand, we are the ones who have given you your freedom. We are helping you. We have liberated you, but all you do is accuse us of coercing you. That is crazy, I tell you. Just think about your father, for example. Everyday – with his back hunched over – he walks to and from his home to his office. At home he fights with his wife, at the office he fights with his boss. But everyday he just puts up with it all, walking from one argument to the next. Isn’t that crazy? Is that what you mean by being free? You’ve got no idea! And just look at your older sister. She hates working at her office all day. She only comes alive when she leaves it at the end of the day. Then she jokes and flirts with her male friends. Actually she should become a prostitute. But for her, that is such a lowly profession. As such, she just likes to flirt with all kinds of people. Your sister has been crazy for a green silk bathrobe, but her friends only buy her drinks and take her out the cinema. If she was prepared to follow her calling she would be able to buy anything that she liked. Isn’t this some kind of craziness? And you, Mahmud, who are blessed with the ability to recognise that as stupidity, describe this journey as a kind of kidnapping. You are truly ungrateful. You have imposed a lot on us. Just think for a moment and soon you will realise that your desire to return is both absurd and stupid. Reality will change. The difference between you with others, is that you are aware of your actions. Others aren’t! You have been blessed with the ability to think. We want you to be grateful and to be calm!’

Mahmud slowly began to realise that he was in a terrible situation. He began to think that the two men weren’t sane. Or was this just an unpleasant dream? But the sun was penetrating through the clouds and warming his body.

He remembered a short story by Edgar Allen Poe about a ghost ship which sails throughout the seven seas only to fall into a deep hole in the middle of a sea in the North Pole. The occupants of the ship are strange and speak in an unknown language. Mahmud shook his head. ‘No! This can’t be happening!’ Yes, indeed these two were not normal. He examined the skipper and his assistant back and forth.

Suddenly he was surprised by the thought which flashed through his mind: maybe he was the one who was crazy. Indeed, it was true, recently he had been studying too hard. Day and night he had been poisoning his mind with all kinds of thoughts. Now he remembered how worried his mother was in seeing his facial expressions and how he she had encouraged him to take a rest. Nonetheless, that wouldn’t mean that he wasn’t sane. ‘It’s impossible,’ he said to himself. But this thought continued to bother him. He felt tired. His eyes were heavy and he had to close them. He wanted to return even though he was reluctant to live.

‘Sir,’ said Mahmud softly to the skipper, ‘take me back to the capital city, even though I will be locked up there.’

‘Ah. It really is difficult to talk with you,’ answered the skipper. ‘Just think a little and you will realise that it is impossible for you to return. If you know, you shouldn’t pretend not to know, right? Indeed you can lie to others, but to fool yourself? That’s where the problem is, Mahmud.’

The skipper’s comments regarding Mahmud’s thoughts were indeed accurate. Nonetheless, he couldn’t adjust himself to this new condition.

‘Sure, you can lie to others, but to fool yourself,’ the skipper repeated himself. That was the problem. He took his cigarettes out from his pocket and offered one to Mahmud.

Mahmud felt that the boat was staying in one spot. But on the horizon dark clouds slowly began to form and fill up part of the sky. ‘A typhoon is on the way,’ thought Mahmud.

‘We warn you to be calm,’ said the assistant while lighting a cigarette. ‘If you make a fuss we will be doomed. If that happens, you will be sent to an asylum and we won’t be able to help you anymore. You must be careful.

Hearing those words, the confusion in his mind began to decrease.

‘So, I can choose by myself where I will go?’, he asked. ‘To nothingness or to the mental asylum?’

‘Yes, you are right,’ answered the assistant. ‘Within certain limits, you can choose between nothingness and going crazy.’

Mahmud was relieved to hear those words. They had given back his self-respect. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette. And with his heart at ease he waited for what was about to happen.

Translated Andy Fuller, 23.11.05, Pejompongan

Jujur Prananto, After the Revolution

2006-12-18T21:41:00.000-08:00

first published as "Seusai Revolusi" in Kenedi Nurhan (ed.), Dua Tengkorak Kepala: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 2000, Jakarta: Penerbit Harian Kompas, 2000, pp.73-81.

He had always intended to return home and visit his aging mother after he had finished traveling throughout the world. Over the past two months he had read on the Internet and in newspapers, and seen on television that the situation in his country was improving. A colleague had written him an email telling him that it was safe enough for him to go back to his kampung without being harassed by anyone.’

But things were much better than simply ‘on the improve’ or ‘safe enough’. When he got off the plane, he and other passengers were greeted by something which was truly amazing: the customs official were polite and courteous. They didn’t seem at all to be looking for anything illegal. At the arrival gate there weren’t any dodgy taxi drivers looking for customers. The registered taxis and airport buses formed neat queues in front of the terminal.

The capital city’s streets were clean and the environment was green and shady. Traffic flowed freely. At intersections there weren’t any hawkers, buskers, let alone beggars. There weren’t any scalpers at the bus terminal. People formed queues in front of the ticket counters.

It was impossible for Hendaru to imagine how his country which had been racked for decades by injustice, barbarianism and the perils of a dictatorship which had collapsed into a state of lawlessness, demonstrations, rioting and civil war, could finally become a calm, peaceful and safe place to live in.

Now, since the fall of the ‘order of impression’ led by President Amangkurat, life had improved dramatically. The Supreme Court had held a general election which the UN considered to be highly credible. The new president – Prof. Dr. Gunadarma, B.Law, B.Econ., M.Sc – had formed a trustworthy government. The rule of law was the founding principle of their policies and they were carried out consistently, without deviation.

***

‘Where do you want to get off, mas?’ Hendaru was startled out of his daydreaming. Only now did he realise that he was the last passenger on the mini-bus.

‘At the next intersection. The one with the road to Sekartji.’

‘You want to visit your mother?’

‘Huh? How do you know?’

‘I saw the television news yesterday afternoon. It said that you were going straight home to have a rest.’

‘Oh...’

‘To be honest, I’m really proud that you’re taking my mini-bus.’

‘Who do you think I am?’

‘Everybody in the village knows that you were the fiercest leader of the revolution. I always followed the stories about the demonstrations which you led. In the past, I didn’t believe that posters could bring down such a powerful government. But now, I know that they can. I’m truly in awe of you, Mas Hendaru.’

‘But, my struggle wouldn’t mean anything were it not for the support from so many different sections of society.’

‘Absolutely, mas, absolutely. Do you want to get out here?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Hendaru took out some money to pay the bus driver. But the driver wouldn’t accept it.

‘Don’t worry about it, mas. It’s on me.’

‘Just accept it, pak. I’m just like anyone else. I still have to pay.’

‘It’s me who should have to pay you, Mas Hendaru.’

‘What for?’

‘Thanks to your struggle, my daily costs have plummeted. The price of petrol has gown done, spare parts are cheap, and credit interest is low. It was even easy to get the credit in the first place. I actually own this vehicle. I bought it with credit from the Village Credit Bank.’

‘We should be thankful that things are cheap. But I still have the obligation to pay for this service. You don’t need to refuse it, pak.’

After a rather long time arguing the driver finally accepted Hendaru’s payment. But before he put the money into his pocket, the driver was a little confused. ‘I’m sorry, mas, but what kind of money is this?’

‘Ooops. Sorry. That’s an American dollar.’

***

Hendaru’s mother greeted him with eyes and cheeks soaked with tears of happiness. Initially she hadn’t believed it when her neighbours had said that he was coming home, what’s more when they said they knew from the television news.

‘So, is it true that you’ve become an important person?’

‘Ah. That’s just what other people have said, mum.’

‘But is it true, you’ve been throughout the world and have even been to the States?’

‘Well, I haven’t been throughout the whole world, but, yeah, I was in the States for a little while.’

‘What type of work do you do?’

Suddenly, Hendaru found it difficult to answer this question. He didn’t want to say ‘activist’ as then she’d say, ‘what’s an activist?’ He also didn’t want to say, ‘a pro-democracy fighter’, because he didn’t know how to explain democracy to his mother. So, after thinking for a short while he finally answered, ‘my job is like Pakde Tarmiji’s.’

‘Oh…so, you’re an adviser?’

‘Yeah, something like that. The difference is that Pakde Tarmiji gives advice to people in the village about farming, while I give information about our country to people overseas.’

‘Oh. Thank God. So this means that you’re a government official?’

‘Not yet, mum. I mean, no. I’m still a student.’

‘Huh? You mean you haven’t even graduated yet?’

***

While resting in his peaceful home village, Hendaru’s body began to ache. His leg which had been broken with a rifle butt began to hurt once more. Previously he had been able to ease the pain by using several kinds of cream. His kidneys which had been kicked while he was kidnapped were also sore. He also realized that his lungs hadn’t fully recovered from breathing in the foul air while imprisoned for months in solitary confinement at the Kampung Manggis jail.

He was forced to undergo a month-long treatment at the local hospital. But he finally had to say goodbye to his mother and return to the capital city. There, he would return to his movement’s headquarters, which he missed dearly.

But now, when he returned to the headquarters, it seemed so quiet. There weren’t dozens of cars and motorcycles parked in the front yard anymore. There was no longer a great uproar when politicians on television made statements supporting Amangkurat. There weren’t any packets of rice and vegetables prepared to be taken to other pro-democracy base camps.

Nonetheless, Maruli was still there. He was the youngest, most militant and most loyal member of the group. He was sleeping on a bench in a room at the back of the rented house which was used as their base. In the past, he was a bright student with broad knowledge. But unfortunately, an anti-riot policeman had shot a rubber bullet which lodged in his head causing his brain to bleed and damage his nerve system. His emotional condition was unstable and sometimes he acted as if he were a primary school kid.

Maruli was surprised to wake up and see Hendaru standing before him.

‘Ah! How long have you been away? Everybody has already left. I’m the only one still here. I live and work for this office and for our struggle!’

‘What about living costs?’

‘Our friends still give me money every month. How about yourself?’

Hendaru suddenly realized that he also needed to survive, to eat and to drink just like everyone else. His savings were quickly running out. The problem was: what work could he find?

He turned on the computer and checked the movement’s financial report. Only a little more than five million remained. The last injection of funds had come from the Benz Foundation four months ago. Most of these funds were used for supporting the long march of 2,000 students from the capital city to ‘celebrate freedom’ in front of the Supreme Court. Even though they hadn’t received any more funds, they had still been able to pay for electricity, the telephone, and water.

Hendaru then telephoned some of his activist friends. However, he could only get in touch directly with a few of them. And of those whom he spoke with, there were even fewer whom could make time to see him. One of them was Bagaskoro – the former movement’s secretary, who was now the youngest governmental minister, holding a key position in the Department of Commerce and Trade.

***

As soon as Hendaru his office, Bagaskoro opened his arms to give Hendaru a big hug. He then said loudly: ‘Long live the hero of our Revolution! Hendaru Jatisulistyo!’

Then, after exchanging news about their lives and reflecting on the past, Hendaru started to talk about his future. Then, Bagaskoro became quiet for several moments. He spoke softly and cautiously:

‘Actually, Hendaru, I want to help you out by giving you a project. But it is impossible for me to do so. As you know, the government has recently passed the Anti-Nepotism and Anti-Cronyism Laws, as a result of our demands made during our demonstrations against the Amangkurat regime. If I help you now, it means that I could be found guilty. And if I did so, it would also mean that I would be betraying the ideals of our struggle.’

‘Yes, yes, yes. I understand. I actually didn’t intend to ask you for a project. I just wanted some ideas.’

Hendaru left and went to meet some other friends, including one who was the director of a large company. But, he only heard the same answer.

‘As a friend, I want to make you one of the directors of this company. But it is impossible for me to do so as I don’t want to besmirch the spirit of anti-nepotism and anti-cronyism which now colours all aspects of life in this country. Outside this office there are dozens of graduates of great capability waiting for me to reply to their applications. Should I accept you – someone who hasn’t even finished his studies – just because you are my friend? Isn’t this just what we hated most about the Amangkurat regime? Isn’t this just what we fought against in the past?’

***

Days and months passed. Hendaru and Maruli tried to find a way to earn some money. They sent their writings to the media, but most were returned, as they were not considered ‘appropriate for the post-revolutionary era’. They even used the machine which had once been used for making political posters to make advertisements.

They managed to survive, but they longed to make great speeches in front of the masses. Maruli, who once diligently watched the television news and read newspapers grew increasingly bored. The stories were all so ‘good’, ‘circumscribed’ and ‘constitutional’. It was just like during the Amangkurat era. There was no dynamism, no tension, everything was cold and emotionless.

Until one night, when it was almost midnight, Maruli began to shout as if possessed by the devil: ‘Bang! Bang! Wake up! Bang!’

Hendaru woke up and said cautiously, ‘what’s up?’

‘Bang, a female worker has been killed in the grounds of a factory! I just saw it on the news. This is a huge story, bang. This is going to make the international news – because, it happened now – under a supposedly democratic government. This is a threat. A single drop of poison can infect a whole river. Our struggle has been in vain because of this event. The remnants of violence still remain from the Amangkurat regime. We’ve got to do something, bang! We’ve got to hold some demonstrations! I’ll contact my friends in the workers’ movement and make a new proposal so that we can look for some funding. All we’ve got to do is change the name of the victim. Our budget can be as big as it was in the past. What’s more, with the exchange rate as it is, we’ll have heaps of rupiah. We’ll be able to contact this house for at least another year. We can pay for the outstanding telephone, electricity and water bills..’

Hendaru got up and lifted the telephone receiver. He started to call a few of his contacts. Then, afterwards, he lay down, yawned and closed his eyes.

‘You’re talking crap, Maruli. The worker died because she fell into a drain when the factory grounds were flooded. She wasn’t killed because she was demanding a higher salary!’

Jakarta, 15 April, 1999

Trans. A.C.S.Fuller, Setia Budi, 31 October, 2005

Agus Noor, A Death in Ramadan

2006-12-18T21:21:00.000-08:00

first published as "Ia Ingin Mati di Bulan Ramadhan Ini", in Kompas (Jakarta), 16.10.05.

How relaxing it is to imagine a pleasant death: with no blood gushing from a cracked skull; without the screams of pain caused by a neck being slit open. He closed his eyes and pushed out such images. Images of a bloody death. He could smell the stench of blood, as if it was entrenched within his nose.

He took a bath and washed himself thoroughly. He whistled softly while combing his hair and cutting his fingernails. He felt refreshed seeing everything neat and clean. There weren’t any piles of cigarettes or dirty clothes piled up in the corner of his room. Every year before Ramadhan he had always cleaned up his rented room. And this year was no different. Last Ramadhan he had even re-painted the walls. Earlier, he had put his mouldy mattress out to dry in the sun. He had folded up his blankets and folded clothes. He had sprayed some airfreshner throughout the room. He did this every Ramadhan. It was like some kind of death ceremony.

He stood in his doorway, looking at the bright midday sun.

***

Several of his neighbours who were sitting together saw him whistling and immediately started to whisper to each other. Children stopped playing and frowned when they saw. Then, a woman hurriedly grabbed the children and took them away. His appearance always caused a sense of unease.

He was rarely in his room. It was as if he would just disappear. Sometimes he was gone for months. If he was home, though, he stay cooped up in his room. Once, some of his neighbours saw him go out in the middle of the night wearing a black leather jacket, while carrying something which looked like a guitar case. Some thought he was a bar musician. But who really knew? Many people had seen him drinking tuak with the prostitutes under the bridge. Maybe he was a thief. It seemed that way from his looks and the tattoos on his right arm. There are scars on his shoulders, where he might have been stabbed. During the demonstrations against the increase in petrol prices, other neighbours had also seen him selling es cendol. At that time, his eyes were darting around - full of concentration as if he was surveying the scene. Maybe he was a spy. Someone else, who frequently took part in payed demonstrations, also saw him once, demanding the release of a former-minister convicted of corruption. One of his neighbours, a tukang ojek, accidentally saw him once: he was looking neat, dressed in a shirt and tie – just like a seller of aphrodesiacs. His neighbours were curious. His cold, tough, attitude meant that no one was brave enougd to ask him any questions. It seemed as if he didn’t want anyone to know who he was. He shut himself off from others. He was mysterious. Strange.

One of his habits was to stand still, looking out at who knows what. It was an odd routine. He would emerge just before the start of Ramadhan. He would tidy up his room and his windows which were usually closed were opened. Throughout the night he would walk back and forth in his room. Maybe he was preparing a meal for his sahur.

But his neighbours weren’t sure that he was fasting. They often saw him smoking during the day. Every afternoon he would go out. But he wasn’t going to the mosque to listen to study the Qur’an or to break the fast with others. Instead, he was going to a cemetary. This made his neighbours even more curious. Then, someone found out: he had bought a plot of land for his own grave. The security guard said how he would often see him tending to the plot, pulling out weeds, cleaning it up and then staring at the grave site. It was as if he was visiting his own grave. People shivered when they heard this story.

The neighbours were nervous. Was he a dukun? What would happen if he raped one of the local girls? Was he still perfecting his black magic? They often heard long groans coming from his room…

Like the devil being expelled from hell, corpses with blistered and burnt faces emerged from a dark hole. They growled wickedly and encircled him. The skin on their faces dripped like wax from a candle. He groaned when he recognised their distorted faces. They were the faces of people he had killed. A student stricken with fear as his thumb was slowly being sliced off. The pale face of a mistress who had had her neck cut. The distraught face of a young girl covered in blood after he had killed her family. Faces which made him groan.

He woke with a start. Bloody dream! It had made him want to die – to die peacefully during Ramadhan. Even though, as a hired killer he could expect the worst kind of death. Maybe another hired killer would visit him and stab him to death. He would try to fight back, but without any strength. He would be sprawled out, writhing and watching the other hired killed enjoy his satisfying moment looking down upon him as he slowly perished.

Ever since he was young he had always liked the smell of death. Whenever his grandfather slaughtered a chicken, he always wanted to be close by. He didn’t like it when his mother told stories about beautiful princesses and princes who did nothing but enjoy themselves. He much preferred the fables of the frightening creatures which lived in the forests. Or stories of man-eating giants. He enjoyed imagining himself cutting off the head of a giant. When he was seven, he secretly killed his uncle’s cat. In high school fights, he would beat his opponents within an inch of death. He was a feared fighter. His friends said, ‘when you’re older, you should join the army.’ Such comments made him swell with pride.

He enjoyed imagining himself as a soldier. In his kampung, people were very afraid of soldiers. Once, when there was a disturbance at the market in the town square he saw a soldier beating up a carpark attendant. People gathered to watch, but no one was brave enough to intervene. How good it would be to be a member of the army?, he would think to himself. You could beat up others as much as you liked. So, he eventually signed up with the army and was then sent off to fight. He was happiest when he to go to torture rebels. He could torture them calmly, efficiently and with great discipline. His commandant liked him.

‘You’re talented. But, you’re are wasting your time if you stay in the army. At the most, you could probably only become a sergent’, said his commandant. Then, when he returned from the battlefield, he was given a job. It wasn’t that difficult: all he had to do was finish off some minister’s wife. Then, several other small jobs followed: kill a businessman, a journalist, a judge. He was paid well. His commandant’s words were true: payment as a hired killer was much better than that of a sergeant.

He earned enough money to be able to buy a house to live in when he had retired. But for the moment he preferred to live in a flat. It was a place for him to hide, even though the smell of the drain filled his room. He was able to overcome the suspicion of his neighbours. He would live in his house once he had stopped working as a hired killer.

He continued to dream of a peaceful old age. He knew several ex-hired killers who had suffered in their old age. Some had died in jail. Some had gone crazy.

***

Then something happened which made everything turn out differently from what he had planned.

The order was clear and simple: kill Kiai Karnawi. So, he had started to watch him. He followed him when he was giving sermons. He observed Kia Karnawi’s appearance. He had brown skin and hollow cheeks, which made him seem even older with his long white beard. He had a calm look in his eyes and was softly spoken. He was surprised: what kind of threat did he pose to the state? Was he a militant leader? But that was none of his business. He only had to kill the kiai and to leave no traces so that later his murder would not be uncovered. ‘Kiai Karnawi died in a car accident.’

He waited for Kia Karnawi to finish giving his sermon. He didn’t listen to it too closely. He just heared bits and pieces which mentioned the holiness of the month of Ramadhan. And, those who die during Ramadhan are fortunate. That, to die during Ramadhan is a noble death. He smiled, then sniggered to himself. Would a hired killer also have a holy death were he to die during Ramadhan?

Everything was going according to his plan. He had manage to disguise himself as an angkot driver who would drive Karnawi home. He thought that everything would run even more smoothly when Kiai Karnawi refursed the offer of two of his students to go with him. He would lock the kiai up in the angkot and then push the car into a valley.

All was going as planned, until Kiai Karnawi spoke. ‘I know you want to kill me. I just want to make your job easier. That is why I didn’t let anyone come with me. So that no one else would be killed. It is enough to kill me. You don’t need to make a fuss by killing others.’

The car slowed to a halt, but he hadn’t used the brakes.

‘Let’s get out here’, said Kiai Karnawi. ‘You can kill me here. No need to push me over the cliff inside of that car. It would be a waste of an expensive car. You could use it if you chose to become an angkot driver if you retire from being a hired killer.’

This was the first time the hired killer had started to tremble. Kiai Karnawi asked to pray. ‘After that you can kill me. But, please, do it gently. I don’t want to suffer.’ Kiai Karnawi laughed. Then he rolled out his prayer mat. The hired killed stroked his knife. He trembled nervously. Then he felt his pistol, which he had with him - just in case. He could shoot him if he had to. But when Kiai Karnawi had finished praying, he just looked at him, confused and still.

‘Now, perform your duty. Maybe God has decided that I should die during Ramadhan. Alhamdulillah. If I could choose of course, I would want to die peacefully during Ramadhan. I don’t want to bother you, sir.’ Then, Kiai Karnawi laughed softly once more.

He felt the evening turn into night. What happened next was full of frightening shadows. There was the sound of a small explosion. The shadow of a bird flash past. The soft sound of a leaf falling to the ground. The shrill of crows in the distance. The sound of millions of insects encircling him. It was like there were millions of eyes watching him from behind the darkness of dusk. Millions of eyes – which since then – always followed him. Eyes which reminded him of the people he had killed and were now after his own death.

He was stricken with fear. He started to enjoy imagining his own death. It made him desire a calm death. A death during Ramadhan. Nothing could make him happier than to die during Ramadhan. He hoped that he would be blessed by dying during Ramadhan.

And let’s hope, that he truly does die during this Ramadhan. Amin.

Translated by A.C.S.Fuller, 19.10.05, Kuningan

A.D. Donggo, One Day in Weimar

2006-12-18T18:27:00.000-08:00

first published in A.D. Donggo, Antara Masa Lalu dan Tali Leher, Jakarta: Kompas, 2005, pp. 101-113.

For almost half an hour, in front of the National Theater, Ayub stood absorbed, admiring the statues of Goethe and Schiller. He was a foreigner in the small city of Weimar in eastern Germany.

He couldn’t fully understand why he stood, as if nailed to the ground, looking at the two great German writers before him. Was it because he had read Goethe and Schiller in translations or was it because of the power of the statues by Ernest Rutschel? Goethe and Schiller were two inseparable friends.

Or maybe it was because of something else. Germans truly valued their writers. In this small city of Weimar, there was not only these statues, but the houses in which they lived have also been maintained as museums for Goethe and Schiller. Ayub had visited both museums and had been impressed. All of their possessions had been preserved: their books, chairs, desks, beds and artefacts. Again, he was amazed: Germans valued their writers.

Ayub had arrived in Weimar yesterday afternoon. A friend had encouraged him to visit this city. He said that Weimar was the centre of classical German literature and the two main figures were Goethe and Schiller. Goethe had been given the nickname, “The Wiseman of Weimar”.

His friend had also reminded him that close to that small city was the Buchenwald concentration camp. This was another site of incomparable cruelty in the history of humankind’s suffering. Thousands of Jews had perished in giant ovens. It was an unparalleled contradiction: on the one hand, Weimar was considered to be the home of the development of German literature (and maybe also German culture), but on the other, barbarism was enforced as the marker of a new civilisation. His friend’s suggestion had to be considered.

He thought for a long time about what his friend told him. But, for a moment it was as if he didn’t care. He was a tourist and tourists don’t need to think about serious matters. Tourism is about being happy. It doesn’t need to be connected with serious matters. Tourism is only concerned with fleeting impressions. A tourist is not interested in whether or not Weimar, as the center of classical German literature was also once the home of a concentration camp. But in the end, he went there. He went there this morning with several other tourists. The building where the mass murders took place had been kept in good condition. It was part of the history of the German people – “a race considered to be superior, but also a nation that was able to be incomparably cruel.” Ayub was taken aback when he heard the guide say this. He wasn’t sure whether that statement came from his conscience as a German, or as a human being who calls an act of cruelty as he sees it. Was there any excuse that could justify such a crime? And he realised that the cruelty was not committed by the Germans as a people, but by a belief that Jews are parasites and must be wiped from the face of the earth. They were considered to be circumcised heathens. And it was civilised people who insulted them.

Ayub was still looking at the statues of Goethe and Schiller. A breeze swept across his body. Even though it was summer in Europe and that he was wearing a jacket, he still felt cold. Clouds covered the sun. He wasn’t sure if it would rain. He couldn’t read the signs of the weather in a foreign land.

Now he thought about what would have happened if the mass slaughter of Jews had occurred in the time of those two great writers. Would they support or condemn it? How would the Wiseman of Weimar react? It was an unanswerable question. But he felt an urge to turn back the wheels of time – from the 1940s to the 1700s, when Goethe and Schiller had started to live in Weimar, and the cruelty of the concentration camp is played out before their eyes: they witness how husbands are separated from wives, lovers from lovers, and children from parents. Those two writers witness how bodies that are still breathing are thrown into giant furnaces.

Maybe they would protest because burning people alive is barbaric. An act which stains civilisation and humanity. Maybe they would say it stains the superiority of the Germanic race. But they would have to realise that they were facing a power. Power is power. It destroys anything that gets in its way. Power never cares whether it faces someone who is wise, a priest, an ulama: whoever threatens the extension of its power must be suppressed. The face of power is always totalitarian. Whether its actions are brutal or subtle is only a matter of degrees.

Ayub was startled. His daydreaming had taken him all over the place. He had now, though, been surprised by someone greeting him. That person had come from behind him. He turned around quickly. The thought came to him that the person was going to beat him up. Hadn’t several events like this occurred recently? Feelings of racial pride and superiority had emerged once more, just as in the 1930s and 40s. Once more foreigners had been targeted – some had even been killed. Perhaps violence against foreigners wouldn’t be able to be restrained in the future. Who would be able to stop history from repeating itself? Only, maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as what Jews experienced.

He prepared himself for what was about to happen. Would he be punched in the face? Maybe. The man was so strong and tall. He was a giant with an evil face and wild eyes. He would not be able to resist the giant. With one twist his neck would snap.

He continued to wait and his heart continued to shrink. The man hadn’t acted – he only kept staring fiercely at him. At the same time, he suddenly started to regret having come to Germany when the newspapers had already reported about the race riots. Maybe the riots weren’t only to do with race, but other causes had yet to be uncovered.

“Are you from the Middle East?”, said the man without beating around the bush. And that question only made him more afraid. Wasn’t the Middle East identified as being the home of Jews, Arabs and Turks – even though Turkey itself was close to eastern Europe? People from Turkey had been the main victims of those who didn’t like foreigners.

“What do you mean?” Ayub asked back, acting naively.

“I asked if you are from the Middle East. Don’t you understand?” The tone of his voice indicated that he was annoyed.

“Why do you think I am from the Middle East?”

“Because of your appearance.”

He did indeed look like someone from that region. His nose was rather large, his skin was clean, he had curly hair and his eyes were like those of a small antelope.

“If I am not from the Middle East, what do you want from me?” he said, challenging him.

“Nothing. I just wanted a chat.’ His voice had changed. It was calm.

“But your manner…”

“Made you worried?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry.”

Now the man shook his hand while stating his name: Wolfgang. He didn’t give his family name. Ayub himself didn’t ask him to say it.

Although he was surprised at the dramatic change in the man’s attitude, he too put out his hand stated his name.

“I’m not from the Middle East. I am not an Arab. I’m not Jewish or Turkish.” He emphasised the word “Turkish”, so that Wolfgang would believe him. He didn’t want to be identified with those who were causing the re-emergence of anti-foreigner feelings amongst young Germans who seemingly wanted to recreate Germany’s painful past.

“I’m sorry”, Wolfgang repeated. “These incidents are making the tourists feel unsafe.”

“Including me”, admitted Ayub. “When you started talking to me like that earlier, I thought you were going to beat me up. I thought you were someone who doesn’t like foreigners.”

“No, I’m not like that. Germany’s past is too painful to be repeated.”

“But these young people who are re-creating an exaggerated importance of being German, they want to repeat that history.”

“It’s impossible,” said Wolfgang.

“You don’t agree with what has been going on, do you?”

“It is not a matter of agreeing or disagreeing. There is another problem which is yet to be fully understood. For example, the re-unification of Germany is not going smoothly. The main differences between east and west Germany, particularly in their economic conditions, will not be overcome quickly. And, this is the result of – or, it is the time bomb left behind by the two powers which controlled Germany after the second world war. Whatever the case, they don’t want our people to become a new power. They don’t want us to become the new superpower – after the fall of the fall of the Soviet Union.” It was as if he was thinking out loud.

“What do you mean” Ayub probed.

“Even though we lost the war, in a short time we’ve once again become a respected nation. In particular West Germany.”

“Just like Japan.”

“It’s a historical reality.”

“I understand. And now Germany is united.”

“But it’s not going smoothly.”

“Japan was more fortunate because it was not split in two.”

“True.”

“Now they’ve become an economic power. Maybe in the future they’ll also have a strong military.”

“If we weren’t split in two…” He seemed reluctant to think about Ayub’s comment.

“By two totally different ideologies.”

“That’s right. And it is impossible for an ideology that has been inculcated for fifty years to disappear just like that. It takes a long time.”

“And now, during that process, new symptoms have emerged. According to the news reports, there are now groups of neo-Nazis. What’s your opinion?” asked Ayub.

“I don’t know.”

“Does their movement have many supporters?”

“It would be better if we didn’t walk about this problem.”

“Or maybe there are some people who don’t want Germany to become a new superpower, as you said earlier, and so they incite some people to start riots and target foreigners. Isn’t that one of the signs of the emergence of fascism?” Ayub probed him some more.

“I am not convinced fascism will re-emerge. That movement will be suppressed. But, that Germany will become a new superpower – history will decide.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why not?”

“But another power will prevent it from happening. They won’t want history to be repeated.”

“Of course not as a fascist power.”

“What do you mean?”

“Germany will rise up as a superior nation.”

“But the U.S. is number one at the moment.”

“Yes – at the moment. At another time, another nation will be number one.”

“Even Germany?”

“I didn’t say.”

“So?”

“History will decide.”

Several young people walked past the statues of Goethe and Schiller. They didn’t seem to care. They briefly looked at them and then kept walking.

“They don’t seem to be interested in the statues of the two writers,” Ayub changed the topic of conversation.

“I don’t think they are new around here.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they were tourists, say from western Germany or from another European country they would definitely be interested in the statues. They would have studied Goethe and Schiller and would know that in this small city of Weimar there are these statues of them. Of course they would be interested in them.”

“And are not…?”

“Neo-Nazis?”

“I didn’t say it.”

“I don’t know.”

“But most of them are young.”

“You can’t make such generalizations.”

“I understand. And, you yourself, where do you come from?”

“My parents are from here. But when the communists controlled east Germany, they fled to west Germany. I was born in Munich and we still live there.”

“And now you are here. Do you want to live here for good?”

“I’ve been here several times since the Berlin wall collapsed.”

“Things are better now that there is no wall between east and west Germany?”

“As I said earlier, the reunification of Germany is not going smoothly. It’s quite a psychological burden.”

“I understand. But would you like to live here?” Ayub repeated his question.

“No. We are happy in Munich.”

“Life is much better than it is here?”

“Weimar is a cultural city. That’s what I like about it”, Wolfgang didn’t respond to Ayub’s question.

“And great writers like Goethe and Schiller have lived here. As well as the great painter, Lukas Cranouch and the sculptor, Ernest Rutschel, who made the statues of Goethe and Schiller.”

“Your knowledge is impressive.”

“That’s all I know.”

“It seems you are interested in…” Wolfgang didn’t finish his sentence.

“In the arts?”

“Yes.”

“No. I’m a tourist.”

“A tourist with a special interest.”

“Not really.”

“So, how many times have you been to Germany?”

“This is my first time.”

“Which cities have you been to?”

“Dresden and Leipzig. At a restaurant in Leipzig I saw some paintings of scenes from Faust. Goethe is truly respected.”

“He is the greatest German writer.”

“And in Weimar there is a statue of him with his friend Schiller. And not far from there is the Buchenwald concentration camp. It is really terrible that the city of Weimar is stained by the black history of Buchenwald.”

“History won’t be repeated.”

“But what if circumstances decide something else?”

“No. History won’t be repeated.”

Wolfgang didn’t seem happy to talk about the re-emergence of neo-Nazism in his country. He left without saying goodbye. Stunned, Ayub watched him leave.

But that’s not all. Suddenly Ayub was filled with fear. Who knows, a different Wolfgang, with a different character would suddenly appear. Wolfgang said history will not be repeated. But who is able to stop history?

Translated by Andy Fuller, 12.10.06, Richmond, Australia.