Three Village Sketches From Sumatra

by ASRUL SANI

MY FATHER AND MY UNCLE

THE gongs and drums were sounding in the waning heat of the day, and it was time to file down to the river. The month of fasting had ended; it was Lebaran, holiday of forgiveness and gaiety. At dawn that morning I had gone to the central chamber where my father sat cross-legged on goldthreaded cushions and begged forgiveness for all his “little slave’s” errors during the past year. Father had kissed my forehead, given me a gold coin to hang round my neck, and sat me down beside him.

A faint melodious call floated out of the distance, “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar . . . God is Great, God is Great,” punctuated by the mosque drum. Yesterday at dusk, drums and seven volleys of the cannon had ended the Ramadan fast. The cannon was probably a relic of the last century’s Paderi War, in which my father’s grandfather had fought against the Dutch. ‘Though the Paderis were defeated, he was again acknowledged as Raja by the chief minister, the tributary nobles known as ihe “Four Rajas,” and the law chieftains called the “Fifteen Lords.” Hence my father, his descendant, was recognized as Raja of our district in North Central Sumatra. I had not been able to speak with him on the eve of Lebaran, for he was surrounded by dignitaries reciting (he Koran.

Now a man in a silk jacket entered, escorted by two others carrying unsheathed engraved swords. He begged my father’s attendance at the mosque, where holiday prayers were about to begin. My father rose commandingly, took my hand, and was escorted from the room. In front of t ho house was a crowd holding banners and yellow pennants. We were led to the mosque by young men carrying naked swords.

There was no place for me after prayers, for Father was too busy receiving guests and their gifts in the central chamber, and I was barred from the back room where the women were cooking.

My mother was more modern-minded than my father. She had studied Dutch. My father saw no point in learning it, and expected visiting high Dutch officials to speak Indonesian, or “Malay” as it was then called. Though able to use the Latin letters, he preferred Malay script. Rut when he wanted me to copy papers for him, I was told to use Latin letters, for he held my Malay script to be of unequaled sloppiness. Commas, periods, and capital letters he considered mere props for those unskilled in reading. When I told him his sentences were miles long and beyond human comprehension, he would fly into a rage and have my mother send me off to school.

He often had a “story vendor” come to the house to sing us poems of the Paderi War with a drum accompaniment. I never heard them to the end, for they continued till morning and I was already nodding by eleven; but I do remember how the women cried when Panglima Usman, one of their favorite heroes, was slain by his enemy.

When I was able to read, my mother had given me three books: The Story of the Jesting Mouse Deer, The Tale of the Wise Parakeet, and Kipling’s Jungle Book. She also read me Tagore’s The Raja’s Letter, told me of Japan’s victory over Russia at Port Arthur, and related how my father had righteously given orders to burn a church which had been built by Christian missionaries without his permission.

Now the sun had fallen, the gongs and drums were mute, and people were filing down to the broad field near the river for the holiday contests. Holding me by the hand, my father walked along under a decorated yellow parasol carried by a child in a yellow shawl. Behind us walked the Four Rajas and the Fifteen Lords, led by drummers, and a large crowd. When we arrived at a shaded pavilion, my father gave the signal for the games to start.

As men lined up with muzzle-loaders for the competition in marksmanship, I heard an old man beside me remark that my grandfather used to show his skill by shooting water jugs from the heads of women walking to the river.

Then came the pentjak, a dance based on the movements of silat, our native art of self-defense. The old man spoke up again to say that my father and grandfather were experts at silat, and that all young men must learn the art. Near the dance’s end, my uncle approached my father and asked him if I were going to take part. Father looked to me for an answer; ashamed, I admitted I did not know how. My uncle said it was high time I learned.

My father took the hint, for not long afterward I was ordered to appear before my uncle, a silat teacher. So one day at dusk I went, ofl with four friends for my first lesson. We each carried five offerings: a chicken whose blood was to be spread in the ring, so the thirsty earth, satisfied, would not demand ours; a roll of white cloth, to wrap the corpse if a fighter died in the ring; a knife, symbolizing the sharpness expected of the student; tobacco for the teacher to smoke in the rest period; and some money to replace the teacher’s clothes should they be slashed during the lessons. Apart from these, the teacher could expect no payment: his skill existed only to be transmitted to others and could not be used as a means to wealth.

When we arrived, the guests had already filled the long lamplit hall. The chairman came forward and asked if we were really serious, because halfhearted studies would lead nowhere. We answered “Yes,” and the headman thanked God for opening our young hearts to the quest for knowledge. The Koran was carried in and we swore that henceforth we five would be blood brothers with all the st udents of our silat school, that we would not fight among ourselves, and never use our skill to show off, to provoke others, or to commit crime. The ring was splattered with chicken blood and we began.

Our lessons were held at night, from eight o clock until one in the morning, by the light of a single lamp, to accustom us to fighting in the dark. When we were more advanced, we fought in complete darkness to develop our instincts.

Skill in silat is based not on bodily strength, but rather on sharpened instincts and highly refined sensibilities. If a silat expert grasps an opponent’s wrist, he holds it as lightly as he would a small bird. Thus he can feel each movement and intention of his enemy and be ready to fend or retaliate at the right moment. He co-ordinates his own strength so as to strike the enemy when he is weakest, thus multiplying the power of the blow. He learns to watch his adversary’s every breath.

One night one of us was chosen for an exhibition with a well-known visiting teacher. Our own teacher yelled, “Attack!” My friend struck out with his hand, but like lightning his opponent’s hand hit him in the solar plexus. He fell and lay motionless. The boy’s father cried, “My God!” but the old teacher’s expression did not change. They wiped the boy’s face and slapped his rump. He slowly regained consciousness.

When he had recovered, he was again called to the center of the ring. “You must learn how it feels now, so you won’t fool around in the future,”said the teacher. The pupil attacked again, and again was struck a lightning blow. Once more he fell unconscious, was dragged to one side, and slapped awake. The old teacher left the ring. There was still no change in his expression.

It had been an important evening: we had learned that we should no longer be treated gently. Our lessons had reached a new stage. We were now to learn about the philosophical basis of silat. My uncle then explained that the silat we had been learning was only a series of bodily movements, paralleling the true silat, which is spiritual.

“Silat ” he said, “is nothing less than a method for answering any problem posed by an adversary. A steel blade is a problem that must be met if you wish to survive. A problem is a challenge not only to the reason but also to the feelings and instincts. And since we human beings are imperfect creations, we cannot meet every challenge; all we can do is strive. Only God can settle every problem, so the true silat is really the power of God. We have learned silat as an art, but that is only the shadow of the true silat.”

I think his ideas had a permanent influence on all of us. Our lessons could never be completed, for the true silat can never be wholly mastered. But I had learned the art, and in the following years I regularly entered the pentjak exhibitions.

When I had to leave my home to study in Java, conflict welled up in me. Then I remembered how I had seen a sword blade break in two when it struck the neck of my silat teacher. I knew that it would be my responsibility from then on to settle my own future conflicts.

A PANTUN COURTING

This is a pantun, one of Indonesia’s many folkpoetry verse forms. Though ancient, it is very much alive in modern life. Its essence lies in the subtlety with which the first two lines, usually an image from everyday life, seem at first to have no connection with the last two, which contain the poet’s thought, but then are seen to have a purely and truly poetic connection, sometimes breathtaking.

There is a story about a foreigner named Oxerbeck who learned how a pantun is made. He came home one day to find his house in disorder. He admonished his maid, “When the cat’s away, the mice dance on the table.”Not long afterward he heard her singing a pantun:

He wondered where the girl had found the first two lines. Then it dawned on him —to his embarrassment. His neighbors were Christian farmers who went to church, and Overbeck, a bachelor, usually took that opportunity to slip oxer in their absence to see if their pretty daughter had stayed behind. The connection between ihe opening and closing lines was all too clear.

The pantun lives in the Indonesian’s heart, gives wealth to his conxersation and beauty to his life. It is most often called into play when a boy is court ing a girl.

One day a friend told me he was going to bertandang, that is, to court his girl xxith pantuns. I already knexx her for her poise, her saffron skin, and her knowing eyes; she xvould be a difficult adversary, so I agreed to go along to help. I told him I xvould not recite pantuns for him — a common custom — but would whisper some to him if bis inspiration weakened. I found a book of famous ones which promised to gixe me the inspiration I might need.

At seven that evening we went to the girl’s village. My friend was in his best silk sarong, carrying a chicken and a small drum. On arrival we gave the greeting, “Assalamualaikum,” and xvere invited to drink coffee on the xeranda. My friend gave the chicken to the girl’s mother; if he won the contest, he would be invited to eat it xvith the girl; if he lost, he would leave hungry and might never see her again.

Summoned by her mother, the girl emerged in a long sheer Sumatran gown draped over a gay batik. Her hair was rolled in a coil at her neck and interwoven with blossoms. She sat opposite us at the end of the xeranda in front of a many-colored screen, alternately glancing at my friend and feigning boredom.

Soon half a dozen other girls appeared and, ignoring us entirely, went behind the screen. I nudged my friend, “Do you see how many girls she’s brought to help her?” He nodded. A girl being courted upholds her pride to the last before giving in. If she does not want to marry, she becomes almost invincible thanks to her friends’ help. And this time, they were many.

My friend finished his coffee, looked calmly at the girl till she flushed with embarrassment, then bowed his head and beat the drum. He sang;

The girl answered:

She was proving her modesty by parrying my friend’s praise. She went on that she was unattractive and graceless. He protested that her pretending injured his feelings. She continued warding off compliments till he suddenly changed his line of attack:

The competition grew warmer. The girl sang that she would turn into a bird and hide in the clouds if he did not slop pursuing her. He answered;

She countered;

My friend fashioned a silken net to drag her from the sea; she hid behind a stone. Finally she could flee no longer: they came together. He sang:

He had now admitted his love. The girl was silent — worried but not ready for surrender, for it was only three in the morning. The drum beat steadily. As she grew more harried, her companions began to whisper. I elosed my book and looked at my friend. His face was calm. The shadows were dancing with the swaying oil lamp. Finally the girl answered, a little harshly in a last effort to protect herself;

She sighed in relief. But he smiled quietly and his fingers beat a confident rhythm. I could feel the excitement beneath his calm. He sang;

I opened my book again. It was far from being over yet. They argued about vows and fate till she Mas again cornered. Grasping for straws, she saw me reading my book, and composed another pantun:

Hurt by her jibe, I looked at him. He grinned at me and replied:

She smiled and sent it. right back:

With this pantun, the girl got up and left without glancing back. Before my friend had a chance to answer, the contest was over. Her helpers came out of hiding and left. My friend beat his drum a while, then struck it a loud blow, followed by a muted beat. He put it aside and casually remarked that he was going fishing the next day. In a few minutes, the girl reappeared, gathered up the empty coffee glasses, and nonchalantly said:

It is time to eat, my brother.”

THE JAPANESE AND THE COMMUNISTS

IN THE village where I was born, History and Time crept in on a rickety old bus in the form of weekold newspapers and letters written in crooked Malay script. Since the newspapers were old, rumored coming events were discussed in the coffee shop as if they had already taken place. News was passed on to the illiterates and retold with various changes. The resulting view of the outside world entertained the villagers and suited their needs. All seemed simple and clear.

The Japanese were personified by the local photographer, a jolly fellow who loved to play with children. It was therefore considered very rude of the Dutch colonial government to go to war with the Japanese. Japan Mould certainly win, for they were nice people and everyone had heard of their victory over the Russians at Fort Arthur. The village was ready to Melcome them.

The Japanese troops arrived one morning after the Dutch had fled helter-skelter, never to return. Their uniforms were of cheap brown material, badly ripped. The people said: “Ah, so poor, but still so valiant! The Dutch army was good only for parades.”

The Japanese came marching in small units, raising dust like sheep. Everyone was calm and curious, and stood along the streets looking as if a change of rulers didn’t matter. We were soon to learn differently.

The soldiers took bicycles from t lie people. They stole chickens. They stopped for the night and Ment looking for girls. An old man Mas heard to say, “These are not people, they’re animals.”

Several Japanese who had been fed and lodged in a teacher’s house left with him a letter for later troops. The villagers were hostile and jealous, thinking the letter must be an order to favor the teacher. Next morning he made a Japanese flag and hung it. in front of his house. Swollen with pride, he marched around like a peacock, saying his son was going to he sent to Japan to study.

Then other troops came. They read the lei ter and made a request which the teacher refused. They reread the letter, became angry, and slapped his face till the smile disappeared. A blow on the head is ihe greatest insult to an Indonesian, but he was too old to fight back. Later it became known that the letter merely identified him as a person “with the proper attitude,” who would fill all Japanese requests. Their request was for his wife.

The Japanese occupation was a time of suffering, which destroyed illusions and shattered all normal values of propriety and humanity. Good men became black-marketeers and scoundrels. It Mas a time of catastrophe. History no longer crept into town on an old bus, but seemed to fly in with the speed and havoc of a typhoon. The outside world was no longer created daily in our coffee shop, but came in person — immediate, hurried, and cruel. The old world had changed. Harvest was no longer a time of contentment, fields were untended, and fear made its nest in our hearts. We had discovered a basic fact: that no foreigner would help us.

Hut the period of occupation finally passed. When we heard from Jakarta that independence was proclaimed, people found it natural and fitting. Our quiet life burst into activity. Previously silent leaders came forward; old questions found new answers.

Political parties appeared, among them the Communist party. It was established by a man named D.... who had learned some English as secretary for an oil company. His knowledge of communism was limited to vague memories of the 1926 Communist uprising. Hut he found supporters, probably because communism and nationalism seemed synonymous — both meant opposition to Dutch rule. It was too late for the Dutch to correct their mistakes: their colonialism had left its mark.

One day D... made a speech to his young followers. He said that all must be equal and the rich must share their wealth. His speech caused two events with which the coffee shop buzzed.

The first concerned a young laundryman who was planning to take a third wife, a girl fifteen years his junior. Third wives did not fit under the category “equality,” so our young Communists decided that he had to be punished. The laundryman did not understand the seriousness of the situation. One day when he was drinking coffee at his second wife’s house, they came to tell him he must stand trial. When he saw their fanaticism, his spirit melted and he went along to the mayor s office.

The mayor was fat with a long mustache. With little to do, he spent much time managing the mail, a job he enjoyed because he could thus read all incoming newspapers before their owners and be the authority in the coffee shop. On this account he was nicknamed “Papa Domei alter 1 he Japanese news agency. When he wasn’t inspecting the mails, he spent his time sleeping or discoursing about his famous recipes. His life was idyllic.

When the Communists approached him, the mayor remembered his position as our legal authority and sentenced the laundryman to a week’s forced labor washing the clothes of the young men training for the revolution. Accepting the punishment, the laundryman ordered his second wife and three children to start washing the clothes while he returned to his seat in the coffee shop. Only when friends mocked him for lack of shame did he send his family home and finish the washing himself.

The second event to set tongues wagging concerned my uncle. He was a noble who had not only several wives but acres of rice lands and rubber trees. The slogan “equality for all” worried him and he assembled the family for conference.

It was finally decided that nothing could be done, especially since Islam raised no objection to the division of property. Hut how not to lose all? He wanted to keep at least a share. The only answer seemed to he to join D...’s movement. His age— he was sixty— was no obstacle: he still felt strong enough. Communist party headquarters accepted him eagerly, for he was a man who was respected, admired, and feared.

Every morning the young Communists emerged from their headquarters and ran around the market place for their physical training. The day after my uncle joined, the farmers at the coffee shop could see a white-haired old man, tall and erect, running round the market amid a pack of adolescents. I he first time round, he ran with spirit. The second time he began to puff and look to see if anyone was laughing at him. Ao one dared laugh at such a famous silat champion, hut his former pupils realized something must he done, for he was getting paler and paler.

A decision was finally made: he would run one lap, then slop for a cup of coflee while a former student ran the next one for him. By then, it was hoped, he would have caught his breath and be ready to run again. Communist party headquarters agreed.

Very early the next morning the coffee shop was crowded with spectators. When the runners finished the first lap, a cheer went up. My uncle fell out at the coffee shop and his replacement took over.

The plan worked well enough, but my uncles running strength was still visibly dwindling day by day. Furthermore, the young men at headquarters were tired of giving him massages every night. It was finally agreed he would only have to come with the runners and leave with them. While they circled the market, he would sit in the coffee shop. This was a time of happiness for him, for his friends treated him as a strong young man and even discussed the possibility of his taking another wife.

But he was old, and, after two weeks, fell critically ill. The young men stood an honor guard outside bis house. He died. No one ever knew whether it was from advancing years or from the morning running.

The village people blamed D— Out of fear, he became a police spy, and the Communist party began to fall apart.

Other political parties came to our village, and people began to forget about D... and my uncle. A new stage had begun. We were no longer isolated. True, young men still learned silat and still courted their girls with panfuns. But History and Time no longer crept in as old newspapers on an ancient bus. There was a public radio in the middle of the square, and great events were felt with immediacy and clarity.

Translated by Boyd Compton