Leila Chudori - Home

I nodded while I waited for Mita to answer her cell phone.

“Mita, how are you?”

“It’s tense here,” Mita said slowly, in a half whisper. I wondered why she was speaking that way.

“No one is sleeping. Everyone’s awake. We’ve got siskamling outside, but it’s dark and scary because we had to shut off the lights. Where are you anyway?”

“I’m at Alam’s. It’s dark here too. ‘Sis’ what, Mita? What’s that?”

“ Sis-kam-ling… Alam can tell you all about neighborhood security systems. And tell him to hang a sajadah on the fence outside.”

“A prayer rug on the fence? Whatever for?”

“Just tell him to do it; he’ll know. Bimo and Gilang said there are gangs of men making their way through North and East Jakarta, especially ‘non’ areas.”

“‘Non’ areas? What are you talking about? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

I could almost hear Mita struggling to maintain her patience with me for my stupidity.

“To wit, ‘non-indigenous Indonesians,’ ergo ‘ethnic Chinese,’ Ms. Sorbonne!” she hissed. “The Chinese are always the first to be hit, their homes attacked and vandalized. But I don’t have enough information to say more. Ask Alam about it. I have to get back to watching my mother; she’s still in a daze, absolutely linglung .”

I turned off my cell phone and looked over to see Alam, who was still on his phone. I didn’t have even enough energy to write down “ siskamling ” or “ linglung ” in my notebook.

“Alam, Mita said we should hang…”

“…a prayer rug outside. In a minute.”

“She said they’re attacking ethnic Chinese.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m just getting information on that now,” he said pointing at his cell phone. “Why don’t you take that shower you wanted.”

As I hadn’t brought a change of clothes, Alam pointed to the armoire, indicating for me to take a towel and choose something of his to wear. I walked lifelessly to the bathroom. I barely remarked to myself about its small size, neatness, and simplicity. I stared at the showerhead with fear and exhaustion. Why did I feel like I had been betrayed? Why at the time when I had begun to love this country had this feeling been summarily eviscerated? I turned on the water but lacked the energy to take off my clothes. Instead, I walked into the shower cubicle and sat down in the corner, beneath the streaming water from overhead, hoping the water might wash away my fears and sadness. I had just begun to love this place, this place called Jakarta. Maybe I couldn’t yet say that I loved Indonesia, because I knew so little of it; but, from day to day, I had somehow begun to feel a bond that was difficult for me to describe. There was this amazing strength and fortitude in the people I interviewed, which I found to be awesome and attractive. How could Indonesians be so strong? What were their bodies and souls made from?

Why did this all this violence have to take place right in front of my eyes, just when I had begun to love this place and its people? The attacks on the homes of Indonesian ethnic Chinese… My God, what year was this? Had we suddenly retreated two centuries into the ignorance of racism? Or, after thirty-three years since 1965, had there been no change? I had to correct what I’d said to my father. There were some things in Indonesia that had not changed.

I heard a soft rapping on the bathroom door. I didn’t know how long I had been sitting on the shower floor.

“Lintang?”

I didn’t know if the voice was that of Alam or an angel. The warm water now felt more calming and soothing. I folded my body, hugging my knees. Looking up, I saw an image, that of Alam in front of me. He turned off the water, lifted me to my feet, and took a towel. Like a withered stem of celery, I let my body fall onto his shoulder. He led me to the bed and helped me to sit. I was still crying. He hugged me, then kissed my forehead, and begged me not to cry. I tried as best I could to stop. I was not given to hysterics. Everyone who knew me knew that about me. There were very few films that could bring tears to my eyes or make me unable to sleep from thinking about the fate of their characters, like Sophie’s Choice and The Music Box— or almost any film by Akira Kurosawa. So I didn’t understand why I kept crying, with my tears bursting from a dam that had broken open inside me.

I only then realized that Alam was also wet. He gave me a fresh white t-shirt that was much too large for me and a pair of running shorts with a pull tie. He exchanged his own wet T-shirt with an old and faded black one with no elasticity but that was obviously comfortable to wear.

“They might be too big,” he said of the clothes I had put on, “but yours are wet.”

He handed me a new towel and then helped to wipe my wet face.

“I want the T-shirt that you are wearing,” I said hoarsely.

He looked at me in surprise but then took off the shirt and gave it to me without saying anything. Pulling off the white T-shirt he had first given to me, he put that on instead.

“I’m going to make some tea. Want something to eat? I can make some instant noodles.”

I shook my head. “Just tea, please.”

Alam left the room to boil water. I put on his shirt, which was big enough for two of me to fit inside, but I loved sleeping in T-shirts whose cloth was limp and almost threadbare. And I liked the smell of Alam’s body. My own had no energy, not just because I hadn’t eaten anything since going to Trisakti earlier that day, but because of my memories of that day’s mad events, which I would never forget for the rest of my life. The information Mita had given me was the most disturbing. What was happening in the residential enclaves of ethnic Chinese Indonesians? My God, what about Om Tjai’s family? Did he still have close friends in Jakarta? What had those gangs of unknown men done to their homes? Had they raided them, turned them inside out, just as the military had done in 1965 when they set on the homes of Communist Party members, their families, and Party sympathizers? Was this any different? Alam had mentioned to me the wild and angry look he had seen on the faces of the groups of men—“thugs” would be a better word — who had been overturning and burning cars in the street. They had robbed, they had vandalized…

I closed my eyes — damn them — which were still streaming with tears. I heard the door open. Alam came into the room with a cup of tea for me, but I was too tired to even sit up. He stroked my head softly then disappeared into the bathroom. I don’t know how long I’d been asleep, but all of a sudden I found him there again, lying on his back beside me. I rolled over and buried my head in his armpit. He stretched out his left arm and held me to him tightly.

“I’ve got you.” He kissed the crown of my head.

“You know, I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can.”

He turned his body toward mine and stared into my eyes. “But I don’t want you ever to be free from me again. I mean it.”

And I fell back asleep, a deep sleep.

It felt like I had been asleep for only five minutes, but suddenly the day was bright. I looked at the Titoni wristwatch on the small bedside table. Ten o’clock. The spot where Alam had slept was cold. Apparently, he’d already been up for quite some time. Where was he? My head started to spin. What was happening? I got out of bed with difficulty, my head pounding ever harder. No one in the living room. The blinds were open. I opened the front door slowly. The street outside was empty. But there was Alam, talking to someone on his cell phone. He waved his hand at me and continued his conversation. Om Aji’s van was also there, still parked safely on the street. That’s right. I had to call Om Aji and Maman, and Ayah as well, before they started to go crazy watching whatever news was showing on CNN and BBC.