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Rolin

Purwanti Kusumaningtyas adalah pengajar di Jurusan S1 Sastra Inggris, Fakultas Bahasa dan Seni, Universitas Kristen Satya Wacana, Salatiga, Jawa Tengah. Dia memperoleh gelar master dan doktor dari Jurusan Pengkajian Amerika, Fakultas Ilmu Budaya, Universitas Gadjah Mada, Yogyakarta.

Dia tertarik pada banyak hal, termasuk naik gunung dan menjelajah, penulisan puisi dan cerita pendek. Dia telah menerbitkan puisi dan cerita pendek, antara lain dalam buku kumpulan puisi “Furtive Notions” (DeePublish 2022) dan kumpulan cerita pendek “They Are Here” (DeePublish 2023). Beberapa puisinya telah dibuat musik dan ditampilkan dalam berbagai acara nirlaba dan kemanusiaan, termasuk dalam acara LETSS Talk, lembaga pejuang kesetaraan perempuan yang terpercaya di Indonesia serta Festival Musik Rumah (FMR).

Dia sudah bekerja dengan Dalang Publishing sejak 2013, yaitu sejak dia mengenal penerbit yang memiliki semangat yang sama untuk melestarikan dan memperkenalkan keragaman Indonesia pada dunia.

Purwanti dapat dihubungi melalui: purwanti.kusumaningtyas@uksw.edu

*****

 

Rolin

 

“Nona!”

The woman turned around. She didn’t look surprised. My heart pounded under her inquisitive gaze. Her curly hair looked the same as I remembered it — except now it held strands of gray.

My legs trembled. I took a deep breath to calm myself.

“Ose Nona, aren’t you?” I rushed to ask before she could say anything. I lived in Bekasi, a suburb of Jakarta, so it felt strange to use the Ambonese Malay word for “you.” This was the first time I’d used my mother tongue in a long time.

“Sorry … who are you?” Her voice was soft . Then her confused eyes widened.

“Nona, this is beta — me, Rolin!” My voice almost disappeared amid the cacophony of vehicles. I stepped closer. “I’m Rolin. Remember me?”

She froze, and her face lost color. Staring at my hijab, her lips parted.

Apprehensively, I pressed my tongue hard against my two false front teeth — so hard, they shifted. I quickly sucked them back into place. This was a nervous tic of mine whenever I became anxious.

Nona swayed slightly, tears spilling unchecked. I struggled to restrain my own sobs. As she approached me with outstretched hands, I froze.

Suddenly, I remembered Abu, my husband, and startled. I stepped back, worried that he had seen us. But no, Abu, was still deep in conversation with one of his Quran study friends, holding the hand of our four-year-old grandson, Ri.

Ri’s mother, Mina — our only daughter — had died several days after delivering Ri. The child’s father had disappeared after finding out that Mina — then only 18 years old — was pregnant with his child. Abu, despite being as tough and as strict a man as he was, had failed to “protect” his child. Or … was it God’s warning?

I looked again at Nona. She had stopped when I stopped, her hug undelivered.

“Rolin, you’re alive!” Nona’s voice cut through the traffic noise. “Rolin, we thought you had died with your parents! Why didn’t you return home?”

I swallowed. “I was scared … embarrassed,” I whispered. How could I tell her about the bitterness that now smothered me? How could she understand my conversion to Islam, that I had pawned my freedom and heritage for the sake of loyalty to Abu?

My lips couldn’t form the words, but tears flowed. My heart ached. I saw Abu wrapping up his conversation with his friend.

“I’m sorry, Nona, I can’t be long.” I hastily dried my eyes with the hem of my sleeve.

Nona also wiped her eyes. She reached into her bag and took out a small piece of paper and a pencil. After a quick scribbling, she pressed the note into my palm.

I glanced down. Her phone number. I carefully tucked the note into my pocket.

Nona’s eyes, still wet, searched mine, but she didn’t say anything more.

Taking a deep breath, I turned and walked away.

Abu, carrying Ri in his arms, gave me the once-over as we walked toward one another.

“Who’s that?” Abu asked with a curious look. I had seen that expression hundreds of times — whenever I talked to a stranger, whenever he caught me watching a television show about my hometown, whenever I talked about the past. Being Abu’s wife meant complete devotion and a total break from what was.

“Oh, that woman?” I hid my agitation by flicking the lower part of my long dress, as if to remove some dirt — another nervous tic. “I don’t know. She was asking for directions.”

“All right, then let’s go.” Abu turned and headed toward the bus stop. I followed behind, thoughts in disarray. I really wanted to go with Nona. I wanted to go home.

***

During the bus ride home to Bekasi, Abu slept with Ri in his arms. My heart was still racing. Nona’s probing look was still clear in my mind. What were the odds of our meeting, thousands of kilometers away from our hometown?

Nona had been my childhood friend in Ambon, the little town where we were born. We often slept in the same room, packed tight like a container of dried julung fish — that’s how my mother had described our closeness.

I looked out of the bus window to divert my thoughts from the encounter with Nona. But the clusters of skyscrapers made it even harder to shake off my nostalgia.

The old bus crawled through the dense traffic as it neared Bekasi. This is what made me hate this city.

I took out the piece of paper Nona gave me. The scrawled numbers were almost illegible. Slowly, I closed my fist, crumpled the paper into a small ball, and dropped it on the bus floor. Forgive me, Nona … I have accepted my fate and come to terms with it.

I took a deep breath and stole a glance at Abu and our grandson, still sleeping as if frozen in the stuffy air. Abu’s face was older now, with a few fine wrinkles. Perhaps because he never spoke harshly to me or ever hurt me, I loved him wholeheartedly. My fear of him, however, never really disappeared.

My thoughts traveled to that doomed day — Sunday, May 7, 2020 — when the ocean waves rose to swallow the ill-fated ferry boat. The tragedy replayed its dreamlike terror in my sleep, but I never told Abu about these haunting nightmares.

***

On that Saturday afternoon, one day before the accident, my parents and I were at the Gudang Arang Port to sail to Seram Island. The harbor was packed and noisy; thousands of people and dozens of vehicles crowded the port. It was my first sea travel and the farthest I’d ever been from home. My father had raised my siblings and me very strictly. We were never allowed to go far.

Here and there, groups of armed soldiers stood guard while others patrolled. They were everywhere. For more than a year, Ambon had been hell on Earth. Muslims and Christians attacked, maimed, burned, and killed one another. As the constant stutter of machine guns and thundering bombs filled the air from dawn through the night, Ambon filled with fear.

On a gloomy Eid al-Fitr in January 1999, a fight had broken out between a Christian and a Muslim public transport driver, at an intersection in a village not far from where we lived in Ambon. The altercation triggered a wave of riots that spread throughout the town, turning the small, peaceful village into a terrifying battlefield.

In the year that followed, homes were looted and burned, turning thousands of people into fleeing refugees. Families were splintered — if not from being shot to death or stabbed then from practicing different religions.

***

From Gudang Arang Port, I was sailing to Seram Island to begin my service as an elementary school teacher. My proud parents had insisted on accompanying me, which I interpreted as a token of their love. When I had graduated from college and saw my name, Anna Carolina, appear on the announcement of graduates, happiness and worry collided — happiness because I acquired my dream of being a teacher; worry because I would have to leave my family and home.

The ferry’s whistle blew three times, and we walked into what looked like a giant two-story, white-and-blue shoe with the name Masnait painted on its side. I remembered my high school teacher telling our class that “masnait” was derived from an ancient language and meant “expedition leader.”

The ferry lifted anchor at dusk. Heavy rain and strong winds whipped the boat’s hull. Buses, trucks, and motorbikes crowded the lower deck of the ferry, leaving almost no space for people to pass. On the upper deck, hundreds of people huddled in the passenger lounge among piles of suitcases, travel bags, cardboard boxes, and sacks. Babies wailed while children ran through the passageway’s obstacle course.

From the conversations we overheard, the journey would take about twelve hours. Usually, the route only took two hours, but turmoil inside the nearest port, a Muslim settlement, made it unsafe for Christians to dock, and therefore the ship had to detour to the southern part of Ambon Island before moving toward West Seram.

We were lucky we had the use of a cabin, thanks to our relative Cao, the ship’s mechanic. His cabin had two small beds, a table and chair, and a small wardrobe. We stuffed our luggage under the beds and made a dinner of the food we had brought from home. Tired, my mother and I lay down on one of the beds while my father took the other.

The rough water made the ship pitch and roll violently. My parents were fast asleep; I was still awake. Peeking through the porthole, I saw my town’s lights fading far away. The ship was now in open water. Despite the turbulent waves, I fell asleep.

I startled when my father, shaking me, called my name. The rumbling vibrations of the engine had stopped, but the ship was still heaving and swaying. My father took my hand and led me out of the cabin and into chaos. Passengers shouted at one another. The hallway glowed eerily under the faint light of the emergency lamps. Mother, looking horrified, leaned against the wall outside the cabin. I became aware that the ship’s stern was sinking.

Everything happened so fast. The crew shouted warnings and instructions while people screamed and cried in terror. The three of us hugged each other. My father tried to pray calmly, but he couldn’t restrain his anguish. For the first time in my life, I saw his tears.

The stern continued its descent. We held hands as Father walked us up toward the bow, where others huddled. Then, people started jumping into the dark, hungry waves. My hand slipped from my parents’ as we jumped off the bow, right before the waves devoured the ship.

I struggled to stay afloat in the churning water, kicking, waving, and shouting for help. I kept swallowing sea water. Using the last bit of my energy, I grabbed a floating piece of wood and clung to it. I was no longer aware of anything except a murky night and roaring waves. My head felt empty, and I was very cold. Helpless, I cried, not having the energy to scream.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I floated with my piece of wood. At some point, I faintly heard a boat’s engine and men shouting at each other. I didn’t dare open my eyes, even after strong arms pulled me from the water. Then, I fainted.

***

The next thing I knew, I was awake and warm. Keeping my eyes closed, I heard women talking softly. I could also hear the prayer call from afar. It sounded exactly like the call I usually heard from the loudspeaker of the mosque in my neighboring village. My mouth tasted very salty. Little by little, my memory returned. I remembered my father praying and my mother’s horror. I heard the waves, the ship’s engine, and unending screams.

I opened my eyes to a large room with a high ceiling, lit by a dim, yellowish light. Are my parents here? I saw no one except for two women with traditional bedak dingin, eyeing me curiously. I remembered seeing that same cooling face powder, made of crushed rice grains, on the faces of the women fish sellers in the Muslim village. Cold sweat spread over my weak body. I’m in a Muslim village! I’d heard stories about people who had been killed in Muslim villages. A scared sob escaped my mouth.

“She’s conscious! She’s conscious!” the women whispered excitedly as they hurried over to me. One woman massaged my feet while the other stroked my forehead, placing a glass of tea against my lips. “Drink this,” the woman whispered.

I positioned my head to catch the straw poking out of the glass. I sipped gratefully.

“Where am I?” I croaked, my voice a stranger in my throat. The women looked at each other.

“Assalamu’alaikum!” A man’s heavy voice from outside the door startled us.

“And peace be with you!” The women replied simultaneously as all three of us turned in the direction of the voice.

The door opened. A handsome man entered, wearing a white robe and the same type of white cap I had seen Indian men wear on television. He wore a thick chest-long beard. Is he a member of the militia murdering Christians during the unrest? I tried to swallow. Sweat chilled my legs and arms. Am I going to die? Is this the end of my life? God, please save me from their violence!

The man approached my bed. Behind him, several men followed in deferential silence. The two women bowed their heads and remained quiet, as if afraid to look at him.

“Treat her well,” said the man in the white robe. Then he looked at me. “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here.” Through my fear, I could hear warmth in his firm voice and detect calmness in his demeanor.

That is how I met Abu, the supreme leader of Java’s rioting militia group, and the man who later married me.

***

Two months after our meeting, Abu and I “married,” following the religious doctrines that made me his common-law wife. Several weeks before the marriage ceremony, an ustad had guided me in proclaiming my conversion to Islam in front of the members of a small mosque on Seram Island. After that, I followed Abu unquestioningly from one place to another, from island to island and village to village. Several times I overheard Abu tell his friends about his militia men who had been killed, about the area they had conquered, or about the funds from Java that they had not received.

Accepting Abu’s marriage proposal had been the answer to my fate that I couldn’t ignore. My way back home had been thwarted by the bloody unrest. My hope to embrace my family again, or at least to send news that I was still alive, had disappeared in screams on the battlefield and rumbling gunshots.

Becoming Abu’s wife was my only safe and reasonable choice. I always felt thankful for the fact that Abu saved me, even though he, together with his militia, had fought and killed a lot of people. My feelings for him didn’t change even after finding out that I was his third wife — and the second woman he’d married following the religious agreement but without legal registration to the government. Yes. I had to make peace with all those facts. Converting to Islam and becoming a common-law third wife was a way of life I had never imagined I could accept and live with fortitude.

***

Our ship moved slowly, carrying Ri and me toward Ambon. I shook Ri gently. He woke and stared at me with his grandfather’s big, round eyes.

After fighting lung disease for years, Abu had died two weeks ago. His children and first wife — the legal one — evicted me, who was only a third, common-law wife. With the remaining funds I had, I paid the ship passage for Ri and myself.

Passengers began moving around noisily. After four days of struggling with the bad memories about the accident twenty years ago, I reached the end of my suffering.

After all the loss and bitterness of life I had confronted, I became aware that I could not fight fate. To accept and to continue living were, in fact, the best ways to survive and love my life.

“Attention, please,” boomed the ship’s loudspeaker. “We have docked at Ambon. Those who end their trip here, please check your luggage and belongings. The stairs are located at the third dock to the right of the ship’s stern. Thank you!”

I helped Ri stand, buttoned his jacket, then picked him up. I shouldered the only bag we had, stuffed with our clothes.

We shuffled along slowly with the other people toward the stairs. I let my tears slide down my cheeks freely. Ri, with his clear, round eyes, hugged my neck tighter. A light drizzle made the harbor glisten. From the top of the stairs, I felt that the small-town lights at the foot of the high hills were welcoming me. Below, a sea of people, standing under hundreds of open umbrellas, waited to welcome their arriving friends and relatives.

I snatched off my jilbab and tossed it into the sea. The thin, black cloth slowly rode the wind until it landed on the water’s surface and disappeared.

I closed my eyes, inhaling the warm air that I had missed so unbearably. This is what it means to be home!

When I opened my eyes, Abu’s smiling face appeared like a vision in the twilight.

Goodbye, Abu. May your path be easy. Forgive me for not being able to uphold your trust and my devotion to you.

I wiped my tears and resituated Ri on my hip. Slowly, the two of us descended the steps, one by one.

*****