Musing Over A Bowl Of Chicken Soup

Musing Over A Bowl Of Chicken Soup

I remember the fate of a puppy at the roadside. We don’t have to take it to the hospital, provide a bed, covers, not to be spooned, forced, persuaded to eat. No chicken soup. If only we give him but leftovers of a meal that would be more than sufficient to keep him alive.

“Water, … “ cried the evacuee, his hand lifted before dying of thirst and hunger in a war in Rwanda or Cambodia. Oh, his life is still so precious.

Meanwhile a bowl of warm chicken soup was served. By little tea spoonfuls granddad who is very old was fed. He doesn’t want to eat anymore, he can’t enjoy the so delicious soup anymore. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to live. But his children and grand children didn’t want him die and encouraged, forced him, tortured him to eat the chicken soup to stay alive.

“Well, let us kill a chicken, especially for granddad,” so they, the family decided before.

“Ah” said the chicken without words, “Why must I be killed?” I’m still young, I still want to live, enjoy life, though I should be sleeping perching on a tree, in rain and wind, though they wouldn’t provide for my food.” Only could he know that he would be slaughtered for the sake of a man who doesn’t want to live anymore. Suppose he knows it, what could he do? Those that know and want it, are we.

And the chicken was killed. It doesn’t help if he would protest, cry for help and justice.

“When I’m as old as granddad, give my dish to some little puppy so he may still live. Don’t kill a chicken for my sake anymore. Better, let me die.” Si Upik whispered to me. “But then I should say this to my daughters and granddaughters and I’m not yet married ha, ha.”

Berita Buana August 19, 1997

Musing Over A Used Plastic Paint Pail

Musing Over A Used Plastic Paint Pail

I’m sad to see my fine blue plastic paint pail, which I used to carry fish, not filled with fish, but oil waste of the motor bike of my son. Months now it’s staying there, instead of being emptied, cleaned, it was again filled as his motor had to change his oil again.

He certainly did not know what to do with it. He had not the heart to empty it on the ground as the plants would die, into a ditch, the fishes. When spilled, it was difficult to clean it up. That’s just one motor. Just count, what a lake is needed to store – remember, this is an Indonesian thinking - oil waste of millions of motor cycles that are in Jakarta only. Where do the car repair stations throw away that oil?

I wanted to write something nice, not write something so disgusting as black and dirty as oil waste of motors.

About Bero the village young skinny dog in Ciloto who welcomed, walked along with us on picnic. He was so very hungry. With each ”slurp” he seemed to say: “Oh how nice, delicious, thank you, thank you.” And he got more and ate and ate till his belly was round and N.B. he still ate unripe mango fruit for our dessert. He’s our dear friend now. Is he there still. How I miss him.

Or see, hear the jingling bells of the deleman (cart), the horse’s trotting and the animated chatter and laughter of little children in it passing by.

I remember our head of the HBS (secondary school), we called him directeur, some 60 years ago, who was tall, a valiant man. He could be nominated as a hero in a film. One day he came as usual on his old bike, his voice was hoarse, yet he still taught us. He told nothing what had happened in the night before. It was his secretary that told us the news. He fought, succeeded to overpower and bound the intruder who threatened him with a knife as he usually worked till very late at night with unclosed door and gate. “Come in Mr. Rasad” he said without looking up. He thought he was our Indonesian teacher.

But there was another thing special and that was his wife he so loved and respected. She assisted him in his work and in tying up the intruder. She was thin, wobbly, trembled, had a quavering voice, perhaps the consequence of imprisonment in the second world war. His name is v.der Hage.

Or the cunning, patience of our ABRI (National Armed Forces). They waited till almost every one believed that there was no hope, every one had no confidence that our armed forces could ever rescue the hostages. Then unexpected they attacked and freed the prisoners in the Timika forests. How our people rejoiced.

Now, what about the ruins of a house that was torn, broken down. Where do they throw this away? Doesn’t it just transporting ruins to another place? Or detergent’s, nuclear wastes, …? That’s enough. No more talk about that. That’s for those who love to solve those problems and care for our earth and wellbeing.

July 1997

What Comes First, Me Or Others?

What Comes First, Me Or Others?

“Some say that thinking of others, caring for others first would make us happy,” said Boy to si Upik.

“If a mother risks her life for her child, a man for his family, his country, … , did they not dedicate it to others first?” she said.

“Certainly not. They did it for their own sake, interests first. It makes them happy, though they sacrifice their lives. It has nothing to do with selfishness or being an egoist.”

“Do you want a man who marries you for your sake, your good?”

“No.” said si Upik. “For, then he doesn’t love me, except it was for his own sake.”

“So, you can’t ever love anyone, anything, your father, mother, child, your country, … for his/her/its sake.” said Boy. “I remember the choir conductor saying to his members: ‘Don’t sing, exercise for my sake, for the church’s sake, for God’s sake. Just big, empty talk. Do it for your own sake if you ever care to love yourself, lest you would be a hypocrite, a Pharisee.’”

October 2008

Don't Promise

Don’t Promise

“Niet beloven. Belofte maakt schuld. ‘Don’t promise, a promise gives birth to a debt,’ so said father in Dutch, who could hardly talk, through the telephone with a quavering voice. He is very old but his thoughts are still clear, Ann.” said Luke.

“But, bringing, taking kindness, goodness to our neighbors also give rise to a debt, a moral debt, a feeling of gratitude, being obliged to repay. It would be nice if it could be done anonym as it would free the receiver from a moral debt. Don’t you think so?”

“What if you are so grateful but never could repay it?. What would you do?”

“I would repay the moral debt by making others happy, grateful in a similar way.” said Ann.

May 18, 2004

As A Frog In A Well

As A Frog In A Well

“Sure, though I may live as a frog in a well in Jakarta, but my mind, imaginations, thoughts, feelings, no dictator ever could subdue, kill, no preacher, no gospel ever could entice, seduce, lure, persuade me, except they (these thoughts, feelings) could be shut off by walls, imprisoned, they could jump out of any well, any prison and perch, settle on a leaflet or a page, yes, jump into the whole world in computers. Ha, ha, ha.” said pak Arif.

October 2008

How To Steal A Kiss

How To Steal A Kiss

Opa Johan’s granddaughter wrote a letter how she succeeded, managed to steal a kiss of granddad without having to wait 10 years more. Her letter was in Indonesian.

To Opa:

How kiss opa? Like this: talk about songs or music and wait, patient. And we must sit beside or behind (in the car). That’s the way. Want to kiss you must sit.

So my story, one day I, oma, opa, papi, mami and etc. in the car. We talked songs, then he’s hit. Every time I always hit a kiss opa. (without having to wait till 17 years old)

From Angela

March 2004

The Gelatik And Benji, The Dog

The Gelatik And Benji, The Dog

Have you ever seen the Gelatik bird. She is so lovely, in grey and black and a red-rose beak, so frisky and so charming as a stewardess.

What would she say if someone offered her a home safe from predators, hunters, place it for honored guests to see in a brilliant hall of a palace with hundreds of candles. She doesn’t have to search for food or water, it would be provided, served on a plate and a cup of gold.

Said the bird: “Though not safe from the hawk, the snake, shot, trapped by man, though not protected from rain, and storm and drink but water from the rice field, a ditch, or have to provide myself with food, endure intense hunger and thirst during drought, give me my freedom, rather than be caged in a beautiful bird house, protected and well provided. I want to fly, have my nest though just of woven grass, find my mate and happily raise my baby chicks.

I’d rather like Benji to be as a wild animal and leaves us, instead of loving us. But Benji when urged to stay away, leave us, and be free, he stays, though we give him but knuckles of pork as his food or has to sleep outside on the floor. Where we go, he goes, where we stay, there he stays and there too, he’s most happy and at home.

And I mused, which is the better, being free or being bound?

August 18, 2004