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Sulastri’s Dream
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
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Sulastri’s Dream
Sulastri’s mother tried to persuade her daughter to stay in Sayangan, their home village in Java, on the outskirts of Wates, Kulon Progo. But Sulastri’s plan after graduating from elementary school was to enroll in the First Teacher Training School in Yogya, like her brother Sugito. He had been living in Yogya for five years.
Sulastri dreamed of becoming a teacher. Sugito, already in his first year at the Advanced Teacher Training School, strongly influenced her with his stories. Every time he returned to visit their village, he brought new stories.
“My dorm is a 10-minute walk from school,” he bragged. “My friends come from all over — Central Java, West Java, East Java, and outside Java! But we all look the same because we wear simple uniforms — white shirts tucked into white shorts with white belts. Unlike you and your friends here who go to school without shoes, we wear shoes and socks.
Sulastri listened to her brother’s stories with admiration. She wanted to be a student like her brother described, but she didn’t voice this desire to him.
Sugito continued telling stories about his school — about the classroom atmosphere during lessons and the community service projects that the students performed outside the classroom. He recounted these details over and over again.
There was another figure that nurtured Sulastri’s aspirations. Mrs. Lestari, a strict yet charming teacher, shaped Sulastri’s days during her time at the elementary school. She impressed Sulastri by how much she knew. She spoke forcefully — a stark contrast to the way she spoke when chatting. She taught various subjects in addition to arithmetic. In biology, Mrs. Lestari introduced living organisms; in geography, she produced maps of places across the archipelago, along with tales about the lives of their inhabitants. She faced her teacher with both fear and admiration. It’s amazing how knowledgeable she is, Sulastri thought. This also made Sulastri eager to enroll in the teacher’s college at Yogya.
But Sulastri’s mother, sitting with her on a bench, reached for Sulastri’s hand, pulled her close, and said, “You don’t need to go to the city to enroll in teacher’s college.”
Sulastri pulled her hand back and, pouting, ignored her mother.
Undeterred, Sulastri’s mother rose and put her arm around Sulastri’s shoulders. “It’s enough that your older brother and sister are already there. If you leave, I’ll be left alone here with no one to help me look after your very naughty younger siblings.”
“But this is for my future, Mother,” Sastri had said while walking away. “I must go to the teacher’s college in Yogya.”
***
During Indonesia’s Dutch colonial era, Dutch teachers were regarded — and treated — as superior to the local “common” ones. But after the Japanese ousted the Dutch, in 1942, local teachers became elevated in stature and held in higher regard. They became the trusted agents of Japanese officers to educate Indonesia’s indigenous children in the “Japanese way.” Suddenly, the local teachers took over teaching jobs across the islands — in the cities as well as in the remote areas. They taught every level of education, from elementary to high schools, as well as at the teacher’s college and girls’ vocational schools.
All teachers had to attend Nipongogakko, a Japanese language training program, whose instructors were also locals, but with specialized training. To become a Japanese language teacher, students began at the level five gyoku, the lowest level, and continued until they reached level two nikyu, the highest level. In addition, school administrators had to take lessons in Japanese loyalty. Thus, the locals entrusted with teaching would remain bound and obedient to Japan as their new ruler.
Despite the chaotic circumstances at the beginning of Japan’s occupation of Indonesia, Sulastri’s two older siblings were still able to attend the teaching school. The existing educational institutions remained popular among local children, and students remained strongly aspired to become independent teachers or skilled professionals. Moreover, there was a movement known as “Japan, the Elder Brother of Asia,” embodied in the Three A Movement: Light of Asia – Protector of Asia – Leader of Asia.
***
Finally, Sulastri’s mother gave in.
Now, Sulastri had been at the dormitory for two weeks. Still, she wasn’t sleeping well, with eight girls crowded into one small room that held two rows of four bunk beds squeezed together. The room was never quiet, filled with the girls’ chattings and whispers of stories and complaints. The young women never stopped talking. Furthermore, the bedding was not a thick mattress but a thin mat.
Sulastri missed her home and village. She had a roommate named Ivon, who came from Manado in the Minahasa district of North Sulawesi. Sulastri shared her background with Ivon. The difference between the two was that Sulastri lived in the dormitory by choice, while Ivon had been dropped there by her uncle, who, as a Dutch soldier, was considered a Dutch collaborator and had been forced to flee.
In their bedroom, the two teenage girls chatted until late into the night. “Shh!” the dorm supervisor scolded them as she was making her rounds. “Please be quiet or you’ll be punished tomorrow! It’s late! No more talking!”
After hearing those words, the room went silent.
***
The dormitory officers would be established after the new-student orientation period. It would take about a month to introduce the first-year residents to their surroundings and fellow undergraduates. As they came to know one another better, they all became closer, and despite being away from their families, the newcomers didn’t feel lonely because their new friends gave them a sense of comfort.
Each student chose from a list of responsibilities — such as maintaining the kitchen and dining hall, laundry room, bathroom, bedrooms, hallways, the garden and grounds, the study hall, and the library. The job divisions among dorm residents were intended as a training in discipline and kindle the spirit of serving others. It also encouraged the newcomers to mingle with each other, as participation was mandatory.
Sulastri chose to be the dining hall and kitchen attendant simply because of memories from home. Sulastri’s older sister, Sumiwi, knew that Sulastri didn’t like to cook. Still, each time she came home from school, she asked her younger sister to help her with work in the kitchen. “Come here, Lastri,” she would say. “Help me. I’ll teach you how to cook using a recipe.” But Sumiwi could never engage her younger sister, who loved outdoor activities better than domestic work. Sulastri used having to watch their only younger brother as an excuse to escape.
After becoming the kitchen attendant at the dormitory, however, Sulastri changed her ways. She had not realized that the kitchen and dining room were the centers of life. Her awareness about the significance of the kitchen only surfaced when they were all under siege of the ongoing war.
Now, Sulastri thought of Sumiwi. Unlike their brothers, Sumiwi didn’t talk much; instead, she was always busy. Whenever Sumiwi returned to the village from school, she taught her mother to embroider with wool threads. This was a new skill. Usually, women in the village spent their days weaving bamboo strips or making ropes from coconut fiber. When Sumiwi was not teaching her mother embroidery, she would be in the kitchen, cooking. This was how she helped support her family.
***
“Who left an unnumbered towel on the clothesline yesterday?” Mrs. Atmini, the dormitory housemistress, waved a towel.
The residents had just finished their lunch. They silently bowed their heads and glanced at one another around the dining table. Finally, a child sitting near Sulastri rose, claimed responsibility, and slowly approached Mrs. Atmini to apologize.
In a booming voice, Mrs. Atmini issued a warning. “Let me remind you that all personal items, including towels, clothes, and underwear, must be embroidered with your respective serial numbers. Understand?”
“Understood, ma’am,” the residents replied in unison.
“Don’t let this happen again. Next time, anyone who makes a mistake like this will be punished. The bathroom and laundry room attendants must also take responsibility for maintaining order.” Mrs. Atmini turned and left the dining hall.
“Pay attention to Mrs. Atmini” an older classmate warned. “She means what she says. There are so many of us in this dorm, it could be chaos if our belongings weren’t numbered and got mixed up.”
The girl apologized to the older classmate. “I am not used to labeling things.”
“OK, but now, embroider your registration number on your belongings right away. If you don’t, she’ll punish you. She’ll punish the attendants, too.”
Numbering was a way to maintain orderliness in the dormitory. Such discipline would help the dorm residents manage themselves. Many students didn’t know what a bathroom with doors looked like, because in their village, they lived close to nature. Bathing was done in the river. Unlike life in the village, everything in the dormitory — bathing, meals, studying — happened between walls, behind closed doors, and according to a strict schedule.
***
During mealtimes, eight girls sat around the table. At first, each plate held one or two spoonfuls of corn mixed with rice. But then the dorm supervisors agreed to pick all corn out of the corn rice and place it onto one plate. Thus, each girl would have corn for breakfast only once a week. Everyone else had rice. Margi, one of the oldest and most respected dorm residents, noticed the uneaten corn on Ivon’s plate. The others had already stacked their empty plates neatly.
“Come on, Ivon, finish your corn.” Margi said.
Sulastri, sitting across from Ivon, felt annoyed with her. Time and again, Sulastri glanced at her new friend without saying anything. Judging by the way she picked at and slowly chewed the corn, Ivon didn’t appear to be accustomed to eating it — if she ever had eaten it.
Conversely, corn was an integral part of Sulastri’s life. Her father raised corn and rice, and she helped shuck corn after harvest. As the village head, her father received rights to cultivate village-owned land that was set aside to support government officials who worked without a salary.
Sulastri could accurately estimate how many kernels were on an ear of corn. Her family’s maid had taught her to count the kernels as she shucked the cobs. The circumference of a cob held ten to fifteen kernels, while a row lengthwise held twenty-five to thirty. One ear of corn could feed three children. At home in her village, Sulastri never went hungry — something unheard of in the dormitory.
***
“Later, we’ll do kinro hoshi at the Balapan field, east of the city,” said Margi. “Our community service will be weeding the field. Please drink enough warm tea so you don’t faint in the field.”
Sulastri was quiet. At home, she was accustomed to doing yardwork in their sunny garden. Every afternoon, she swept and gathered dry leaves in the yard. During the dry season, she helped harvest corn, sweet potatoes, and rice in the fields. Strangely, however, although they studied at a school in the city to become teachers, they also had to work in the fields. Sulastri took a deep breath; she was not afraid of getting sunburned like her city friends. She was upset because her burning desire to learn various subjects at school was still not realized.
***
Every time Sulastri and her group did their job of clearing the table and washing the dishes, Sulastri made it a point to talk stealthily with the dorm’s cook. One day while rinsing dishes, she asked, “Ma’am, how much corn do you usually cook?”
The cook glanced around, worried about being caught informing a student about the kitchen’s allotment of corn rice. “Shh!” she shushed. “Don’t ask such questions. The housemistress will be angry.”
“I’m just here doing dishes, not violating rules,” Sulastri replied. She prodded, “How much are you allotted to cook, ma’am?”
“We must be economical and prevent food waste,” the cook whispered. “Food is costly.”
“But our portions are so small! How could there be food waste?”
“Our food supply is very limited. We have several sacks of corn in the warehouse, but we must make them last.” Clearly wishing to end the conversation, she added, “We’re going through a hard time and must be frugal.”
Sulastri ignored the cook’s attempt to disengage. “In my village, I often helped my mother shuck corn. We never lacked for food.”
The cook sighed. “We have many students in this dorm to be concerned about. In my house, our family must also be frugal; otherwise, we might not have enough food to last through the month.”
“I worry that the dorm residents will become malnourished.”
“I understand. But the housemistress said our portions are enough to keep the dorm residents from getting sick. So, I obey her instructions.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you. I hope my friends and I will stay healthy. Be well,” True to Javanese custom, Sulastri put her two palms together and, bowing her head, brought her hands and face together.
After finishing the dishes, Sulastri left the kitchen, feeling frustrated. “Ivon,” she said, “why didn’t you finish your corn?”
“I’m sorry,” Ivon said softly. She was not used to eating hard corn kernels she had to chew one by one. “I am just not used to eating corn. I come from Minahasa and there, we have sweet-potato porridge for breakfast. The potatoes are boiled, mashed, and mixed with vegetables. It’s squishy and fresh. Especially when it’s warm.”
“If you don’t want to eat it, you can give it to one of the others,” Sulastri said. “Just don’t waste it.”
“I didn’t mean to waste it,” Ivon snapped defensively. Then, regretting her tone, she added, “I’m sorry.”
The girls hugged each other tightly.
***
Almost every week, the teachers gathered students to perform manditory community service known as kinro hoshi.
Early in the morning of the kinro hoshi, the teachers gathered about 166 students at the Balapan field, some distance away from the school and dormitory. The large field was treeless, only covered by weeds and brush, and the weather was quite hot. Their assignment for the day was to pull out the unwanted plants.
Under the watchful eyes of Japanese soldiers, the teachers organized the students in a single row, about an arm’s length apart. The row covered the entire length of the field.
When a teacher blew the starting whistle, the students, moving backward, started pulling up weeds and brush. They used whatever tool they happened to have. No one cracked any jokes. Everyone worked in a methodical fashion. This was a special lesson in working together, orderly.
Walking backward, they worked like rice farmers transplanting rice. People said that the Japanese supervisors introduced this transplanting technique, because if the farmers walked forward, they would step on the newly planted plants.
If a farmer deviated from an established row of the plants, the Japanese supervisor would indiscriminately pull out the rice plants and the farmer had to start from the beginning.
During class hours before the kinro hoshi, Sulastri’s school teacher had stealthily delivered important warnings to the students to avoid being supervised by Sido-in. The Japanese city teaching supervisor was notorious for his cruelty. The teacher took a deep breath several times, saying, “Kinro hoshi.” Appearing to worry about passing this information, she paused before continuing, “We live in a difficult time and cannot teach a lot of lessons in the classroom like we used to. The Japanese government likes to make use of student labor. So, try to find lessons in the fields and learn there, not just from lectures and textbooks. Pay close attention to the fields. Observe your friends. Do something, to preserve your integrity!” The teacher took another deep breath, then concluded, “You must keep thinking and learning. Resist becoming a farmhand. You won’t receive any payment. You are students, prospective teachers. Even though you do physical work, you must keep using your brains to think.” The teacher’s words echoed in Sulastri’s mind.
***
In 1950, Sulastri graduated from the Advanced Teacher Training School and was assigned to teach at a public elementary school in Solo, Central Java.
Sulastri recognized some basic differences between being a student and a teacher. As an elementary school student, she studied under the Dutch educators’ supervision. Then, she studied as a prospective teacher under the Japanese officials’ supervision. Now, she was a teacher and was supervised by neither. She was a young teacher dedicating herself to the young generation of their independent nation.
One year later, Sulastri married an elementary school teacher who worked in Semarang. They were both graduates from the Advanced Teacher Training School. Sulastri moved to Semarang, where they both taught.
Driven by their youthful spirit, they managed their time to pursue higher education while teaching. Along with her husband, Sulastri eventually obtained her bachelor’s degree in education. Her husband became a high school teacher. Sulastri chose to be a teacher at the local teacher’s college.
***
Decades passed. Sulastri retired in 1990. She and her husband had dedicated forty long years to teaching.
Their marriage was blessed with two sons and two daughters, who moved to different cities in Java and Sumatra. In turn, they married and provided Sulastri and her husband with grandchildren. In their old age, Sulastri and her husband moved back to Yogya.
When their youngest son’s wife delivered another grandchild, Sulastri, with her husband’s permission, went to visit them in Jakarta. Functioning as a mother to her children and grandmother to her grandchildren nourished Sulastri’s wellbeing and provided her with entertainment at her old age.
***
One morning, Sulastri, still wearing her house dress, was about to make microwave popcorn for her grandchild. Her daughter-in-law was still in the hospital after delivering her third child. It was difficult to find a maid so Sulastri became a grandmother who temporarily substituted for the young mother at home.
“Uti,” said Sulastri’s grandchild, using the Javanese term for grandmother, “please put the package into the microwave and wait for two minutes.”
“Yes, wait. I am doing it.” Sulastri followed her grandchild’s instruction.
“It’s done when the microwave beeps,” the grandchild said. “Now, shake it. Then put it back into the microwave to finish making it popcorn.”
When the microwave beeped, her grandchild shouted, “Uti! Uti! The popcorn is ready. Now let’s enjoy it.”
Sulastri poured the warm popcorn into a bowl. Stunned, she stared at the fluffy white balls the corn kernels had transformed into. Tears sprung into her eyes when she remembered her teenage years at the Advanced Teacher Training School and her spat with Ivon in the dormitory about wasting corn.
Enjoying the popcorn, Sulastri’s grandchild pulled on her arm. “Come, Uti, try this popcorn.”
Sulastri stroked her grandchild’s head and said, “Yes, I’ll join you.” She was relieved that her grandchild had not noticed the tears she had been unable to hold back.
*****