When Boys and Girls Faced Men and Machines
Yesterday, we visited the cemetery in Tanah Kusir. As we strolled down the central path, to our right, a burial ceremony was taking place. The group, mostly in black, sang Christian hymns as they mourned their recently departed. A few steps ahead was my Oma and Opa. They now lay together under neatly trimmed grass, with an onyx plaque bearing a simple prayer. However, before we arrived at their tomb, to our left were various mounds adorned with the red and white of the Indonesian flag. As I looked closer at these stone tablets, I could see that they were engraved with the names of veterans. Soldiers from the War of Independence. I paused for a moment to pay my respects. However, upon closer inspection, I noticed that their birthdates spanned the nineteen-thirties. They were children, tweens, and teens when they joined the fight against the Allies. It may sound strange to some, but after World War II had concluded, the Allied forces backed the Netherlands in their attempt to reconquer and recolonize the archipelago. This was when boys and girls faced men and machines. For four hard years, bamboo spears fought off soldiers, planes, boats, guns, and bombs. When the odds seemed long and fear threatened to overwhelm, they persevered.
This week, several protests occurred in Jakarta (and elsewhere). The spirit of revolution, change, and resistance is in the air again. It seems to rise more and more frequently these days. At times, it even crowds out the city’s notorious smog. Speaking with friends, family, and strangers, the city murmurs. In a region prone to seismic activity, the ground trembles cautiously as the streets hum anxiously. It’s hard to pinpoint precisely what lit the fuse, but it is smoldering now. Over the past few weeks, I have written a whole lot and deleted almost all of it. I have much to say, but I am wracked with fear. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I get in trouble? Or worse, what if someone I know gets hurt? It is paralyzing.
I am worried about Indonesia. I am worried about America. I worry about so much. I fear even more than I worry. However, last night I couldn’t take it anymore. Affan Kurniawan, hardly twenty-one years old, lost his life. During the previous evening’s demonstrations, Kurniawan, a motortaxi driver, was run over by an armored police vehicle. Perhaps it was the visceral brutality, or it was the timing, or the accumulation of bad news. I am not sure. To make a martyr or taxonomize pain is beside the point. What I do know is that for me, enough is enough. What will it take for others to admit what they already know? Do more people need to be squashed in front of Istana Merdeka? What will happen when the Trump administration hits its target of a million deportations? Will we continue to look away at the plight of Palestinians?
During this visit home, I got plenty of questions from aunts and cousins about my plans for marriage and kids. This sort of stuff seems routine, if somewhat daunting and exciting, but it is not always guaranteed. I recently celebrated my twenty-eighth birthday, making me not much older than Kurniawan was when his life was stolen. I don’t know anything about him or his aspirations, but I am sure he had plenty, as we all do. I know that I want to have a family in the future, but the onslaught of recent developments has made me pause. I want to raise my children according to the values that I have upheld. So far, I feel that I have faltered in that regard. At this time, when boys and girls face men and machines, what will I tell them? I want to tell them that I was brave.
