Leila Chudori - Home

Coursing through my veins was a kind of blood I did not know, but which was called Indonesia, and which melded with the other kind of blood in me called France. The flow of that foreign blood inside me always seemed to quicken and make my heart beat faster whenever I heard the sound of gamelan music in the biting cold of winter; when my father recounted tales from the shadow theater — about Ekalaya, for instance, the eternal outcast, or Bima, whose love went unrequited; or when Maman, in her halting Indonesian, would read to me Sitor Situmorang’s poem about the prodigal son who, when finally returning home, still feels himself to be in a foreign land.

That blood in me felt at once foreign, pleasurable, and mysterious. All that was Indonesia and all that smelled of Indonesia was, for me, a site in a magical tale, one that existed only in dreams, like reading a novel set in a country I’d never visited.

Indonesia was for me a name on a map, little more than a concept. And the knowledge of that country, which supposedly flowed through my veins, had to make room for the French blood that was in me as well.

For the longest time, it seemed, I had forgotten about that foreign substance in myself.

A series of arguments between me and my father had taken their toll, and a long-simmering dispute between Maman and Ayah which had ended with their divorce had not made our relationship easier. A few months earlier the tension between us had peaked and we hadn’t spoken to each other since that time — which meant, of course, that I had stopped going to Tanah Air Restaurant, which in turn meant I had long been separated from the restaurant’s genial atmosphere, with its distinctive sound of gamelan music, and its interior walls decorated with shadow puppets, masks, and a map of Indonesia. Making things much more difficult for me was that I now rarely saw my father’s friends: Om Nug, Om Risjaf, and Om Tjai, who were like true uncles for me. Yet another hardship was no longer being able to smell the scent of my father’s goat curry, a dish that could compete with signature dishes of Europe’s master chefs.

This estrangement between me and my father was thus, for me, hardly an ideal situation. But then having a father who was so complicated and filled with anger was not exactly easy either.

When the Metro came to a stop at Rue de Vaugirard station, I suddenly felt the need to leave the train and calm my thoughts. Professor Dupont’s suggestion was a command I could not countermand. It meant that I somehow had to make a documentary film that was connected to my father or to Indonesia.

I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A.

On that spring morning, I felt myself being prodded to explore that foreign part of my body. I didn’t want to do so, to thoroughly examine that region. There were things about Indonesia which for others would always seem to be exotic or unique — Java, Bali, Sumatra, the Ramayana , the Mahabharata, Panji Semirang , Srikandi, gamelan music, pink kebaya , the scent of luwak coffee, the spicy taste of beef rendang , and mouth-watering richness of goat curry — but for me, whatever cultural exoticism that Indonesia had to offer was concealed. Ever since I was a girl, I had always been haunted by a political upheaval that my peers knew nothing about, an event whose gory details had been expunged from Indonesia’s official history books.

TANAH AIR RESTAURANT, 90 RUE DE VAUGIRARD, 1985

Winter in Paris. The smell of fried chili sambal bajak assails the nose. The ground red chilies and garlic that stimulate my olfactory nerves is a most pleasing torture. Om Nug is a great cook, but for me, my father is the best cook in the world.

There was a basic difference between my father’s cooking and that of Om Nug. Om Nug was a modern-day cook who had only begun to study the wealth of Indonesian spices after the band of four decided to establish a cooperative and open an Indonesian restaurant. Om Nug emphasized efficiency. For example, he saw the preparation of spices for rendang as something simple; there was no need for the kind of elaborate ritual that made life difficult. All the spices could be put into a blender into which he’d pour coconut milk from a can that he bought in Belleville.

Ayah, on the other hand, loved ritual. He was both obsessive about and possessive of his stone mortar, which an aunt of his had sent him from Yogyakarta. With his faithful mortar in hand, Ayah kept the blender at a distance. He ground his spices slowly and carefully, mixing in the coconut milk, little by little, while complaining occasionally about having been forced to use coconut milk from the can. Whatever the case, I had to admit that the spicing of my father’s rendang had a far more arresting taste than that of Om Nug, which he produced in a blender. I almost swooned whenever I tried my father’s rendang or gulai , their taste was so good. But that meant that Ayah had had to lock himself inside the kitchen for much of the day in order to prepare his spices in the traditional way.

What’s taking so long? It’s seven o’clock and time to eat! But I could see a delicious meal ahead. Le dîner sera délicieux! On the menu that night was nasi kuning with side dishes of tempe kering , little sticks of tempeh soaked in brine and then fried until crispy; sayur urap , mixed steamed vegetables with spiced coconut; empal , seasoned slices of tenderized fried beef that melted in your mouth; and sambal goreng udang , a dish made with shrimp and chili sauce. Ayah always made two kinds of sambal or hot sauce to further spice up a meal: a sambal bajak which was not too hot — Ayah always removed the seeds of the red chilies and parboiled the chili’s flesh before frying it — and thus more palatable for the tongues of French clientele, and a crushed peanut sambal into which he blended small green chilies that were so hot the sambal could be enjoyed by only the most tempered of tongues in Paris: those of Maman and me.

Maman was busy going back and forth from kitchen to dining room helping Ayah and Om Nug. In December the restaurant was always full. Over the years, dinner at Tanah Air seemed to have evolved into a kind of culinary picnic for French families wanting to celebrate the Christmas season. But Ayah had promised that tonight would be a family night and that no matter how busy the restaurant was, he would find time to sit with Maman and me so that we could enjoy together the meal he had prepared.

My eyes were on Maman. She was holding in her arms two large wide-necked glass containers filled with kerupuk shrimp crackers and was talking to Om Tjai and Ayah, who had just removed his white chef’s smock, a sign that he was now free from duties and ready to eat. Come on! Why is it taking so long? Couldn’t Maman and Ayah hear my stomach grumbling? Weren’t they ever…

The door creaked. A cold winter’s wind quickly swept into the dining room. And then I saw, un, deux, trois, quatre— four tall, hulking French men who filled the restaurant’s foyer. They stood, not smiling, as if having no reason for coming to the restaurant except to cast their surly gazes.

“Police…” Maman whispered.

Police? The men weren’t wearing the kind of uniform I usually saw policemen wearing on the streets.

I looked at Ayah. He seemed tense, with a fire suddenly flaring in his eyes, like the time I spilled a cup of luwak coffee on one of his books of poetry. I saw Om Nug and Om Tjai whisper something to him. Ayah bit his lips. I guessed they told him that it would be best for him not to do anything and let them deal with the police. But Ayah ignored them and immediately approached the four men. Together with Om Nug, he ushered the policemen to a quiet corner, away from the main dining area so that they wouldn’t disturb the clientele. The restaurant was almost full.