Manira /Damar Scouts

Episode 8

Short episode version of the novel “Senandung HOMESU under the Broken Moon Wings”

Damar Jurors

By: Elmira Arasy Rahman

Episode 8

Twelve years later, the little baby grows up to be a very smart and intelligent child. Although there was something he did not understand. Almost every night Juragan Damar spent the night in his mother's room while his father had to style his own shoes in a narrow room with him. The sad face full of wounds was never able to hide Hasan from Gibran who already considered him his own father.

Gradually the little boy began to understand, why could it be like this? Who's in the wrong? And why does it have to be like this? Every night, Gibran had to wipe the tears on Hasan's cheek with his small hands as if to tell his father to be strong and firm. Every child may not always reveal what is in his heart, it may not always question what they do not understand from adults. But they see and then understand. Gibran also begins to understand that he is not Hasan's biological son. He knew who his real father was and was born from what kind of relationship he was. He himself was even disgusted to know his origin. Whenever Juragan Damar smiled at him and tried to caress his face, Gibran always turned away. There was not a single pride in Gibran's mind, born as the son of Juragan Damar, the most respected person in this village. To him all were hurt and disgusting.

Instead, Gibran always embraced Hasan and considered him a great father. A father who could accept it with open arms knowing that he was the fruit of such a cruel betrayal. He was proud of Hasan who could be heartened to see all these injustices. To Gibran, Hasan was a role model. The greatest father the world has ever seen.

“Ikan asin... salted fish... Buk salted fish,” shouted Hasan offering his merchandise to market visitors.

“Half kilo how much mas?” asked a mother who looked like a traveler who came from out of town for a vacation to the place.

“Fifteen thousand, if you buy one kilo is twenty-eight thousand,” replied the man who at that time wore a brown tee shirt that was attached to the fishy smell of salted fish and slum knee-length shorts.

“Two three mas.”

“Two five pas..”

“Oke,”

Hasan swiftly picked up the fish, weighed it and put it in a black crackle bag. It was only then given to the green-veiled mothers who had been waiting for him.

“This, Mom...” he said while handing over the crackle bag.

“Thank you,” replied the mothers while handing money to Hasan.

“Sama-sama.... happy holidays..”.

The majority of the livelihoods of the people around the beach are fishermen. They search for fish in the high seas and sell them at fish markets. Some people choose to sell grilled fish. Some others open stalls in coastal tourist areas. Some sell salted fish, grilled fish, smoked fish and various other processed fish. One of them is Hasan who chose to sell salted fish.

“Fish smoke... smoked fish!” there was the sound of other traders interlocking in that market.

“Fresh fish....fresh fish...cheap...” other traders who continue to sound unpretentious offer their merchandise to visitors who jubilee along the fish market.

“Today we sold a lot sir,” said Gibran with a crisp tone typical of 12-year-olds who seemed eager to help Hasan sell fish in the market.

Seriate...