While the Script is Drawn

Mosaic 16 - Poems on Red and White

ALLAH AKBAR! ALLAH AKBAR!

DAR! DAR!

ALLAH AKBAR! ALLAH AKBAR!

The roars of screaming and boisterous shrieks lit up the ears in the meadow.

The grassland is gray because it is hit by a pale ray of gloomy moonlight. It was murky to see the events underneath. The bodies were strewn about like ketchup bottles lying down and the caps were open, draining thick blood on the ground. Blood from the dead bodies of martyr’ and the companies of the bastards.

Although only armed with pottery –parang, celurit, sundu and yellow bamboo are sprouted at the ends - the heroes of the earth in green cotton uniforms, pounding the companies without fear. Their spirits are burning. Company soldiers were overwhelmed. Until they are forced by the invaders.

A native soldier fought very hard. With a blazing spirit he unsheathed a pointed bamboo on every enemy in front of him. The chaos of the company warriors he made. However, one of the companies was aiming for him.

And, “Daarr...” Bullets skyrocket. Infiltrate right in the heart of that jejaka. “Allahuakbar!” The last word he said. Stop over. The white red heart rate stopped. Die.

Then it's all dark. Pseudo.

***

I woke up from my sleep. My breath raced like a marathon in the city square ten times without stopping. Sweat flooded my body. I sighed softly, “Astagfirullahaladzim.”

Ali, my boyfriend looks at me strangely. “Why Bar? That dream again?”

I nodded weakly. It's strange, I always dreamed of that. And it always happens in the days near the 10th of November. Starting from the first November I was in Aliyyah Madrasah, until November now. Last November if I graduated from school here.

Let my eyes go to the corner of the class. Crowded atmosphere. Some were chatting, gossiping and even sleeping (like I was). And I wonder if those who sleep dream the same things as me?

Meanwhile, my head still felt dizzy from the dream. I looked at the clock on the wall. It's just 09:35. The rest is long. While I really wanted to go to the cafeteria to buy a drink. Then, I turned my eyes out the window. Coincidentally my stool is located near the second-floor window.

Apparently that guy doesn't exist yet. The guy my friends say is crazy. I think so too. The man who always stands upright in front of the flagpole while respectfully every day approaching the 10th of November.

“Bar, stop daydreaming it. Tuh, Madam Ida has come” said Ali, menjwilku.

Madam Ida, the math teacher entered the room.

“Good morning kids. I apologize for being late to class because there was something to take care of at the office.” said Bu Ida. “Now, we continue the lesson. Go to page 141. Function limit.”

Before opening the book again I looked out the window. The man I mean is standing straight in front of the flagpole, respectfully.

***

The students and teachers are no longer. It's me, Ali and the crazy guy. I was deliberately waiting for this situation. To be honest, I was very curious about that madman. Why would he be willing to heat up just to be respectful to the flagpole like the person of the August 17 ceremony? Today is not August 17th. It's November. And the dream is the same. November's?

I took Ali to approach the madman. Ali flinching.

“Colah Al, I was very curious,” I said to Ali with a face I made as eleventh as possible.

“You're crazy, Bar? I think there is no work.” Ali shook his head as if seeing me go crazy. “Lagian free only. That crazy guy won't mind you. Mr. Kepsek, Mr. Bambang, Mr. Sahal, the school gardener, all of them were harassed by the madman. It's possible that a madman is mute.”

However, curiosity has made me stubborn. “What's wrong trying?”

And finally, after a long debate, my best friend was willing to go near the madman. Ali followed me half-heartedly. We hesitated to step. Until we get behind the crazy guy.

“Excuse me, Mas,” I said to the madman.

Not respecked.

“Excuse me, Bang,” I said again.

I'm still being diced. Kujawil on his shoulders from impatience. She's staring. I'm aghast. Ali was shocked to retreat backwards. I've never been this close to this crazy guy before. This madman looks young, maybe 27 years old. Wrapped in ragged clothes. And his face is full of scars. It's spooky!

I was confused as to what to say. Then the madman reached into his pants pocket. I was worried, and so was Ali. “Eh, what is he rogoh, Bar?” whispered Ali.

“Now, I don't know either,” I said whispering.

“I think we should leave immediately,” suggested Ali.

“A minute, Al.”

I'm sure in her squeaky pants pocket there's nothing. Yet miraculous! I really did not expect from the bag of his pants there was a lump of cloth. Red and white flag. Huh huh? Yes, he issued a red and white flag. And I wonder beyond measure this madman gave me that red-and-white flag.

“Take it,” he said in a heavy and hoarse voice. I actually also felt that there was a bit of a sinister aura.

Ali and I observed the red and white flag that was now in my hand. The fabric is shabby, many small tears and the red color fades to pink. This flag makes me feel uncomfortable. I can't interpret it like how. I looked up and wanted to ask this lunatic why he gave this flag to me. However, I was struck by a big question mark. The crazy man no longer exists. Ali and I looked at each other, immediately terrified.

***

Later that night, I put that pathetic red-and-white flag on the study table. I kept my eyes on that flag. While the cold air entered through the window, my mind was raging in incomprehension. And the longer I stared at the flag, the more I felt something. I don't know, I don't know what it looks like, either.

Suddenly something happened. Mysteriously word for word. Those words were strewn over that red and white flag. I should have screamed in this second too. I watched it, rhyme by rhyme created. And it's all written with blood! Imagine that! The blood!

I read those rhymes.

***That night

It was a lot of that night

Not because of the cuckoo of an owl

Not because of the wolf

Red and white fluttered in the air

People shouted,“Our country must be free, Allahu Akbar!”

And I cut off the necks of those invaders

And now we are liberating our land

Soekarno-Hatta has revealed it

But I still stumble and train

Today

Buildings towering

Star hotels here

Cinemas, stadiums, and kite streets,

Together manipulation, collusion, corruption, monopoly

I whimper

I cried

No one knows anymore

Nobody cares anymore

Which is no longer

After a piece of the rumble dropped me

In that field of battle

I've been hovering

In dusty history

For your sake

I gave up my body soul

So that you are free

Freemen.

My homeland***

Huh huh? Whatisthis? A poem?

I try to understand every word on this red and white flag. Trying to relate it to the dream I've been having lately. The knot began to clear in my mind. Maybe my school was a former battlefield. And maybe that crazy guy?

A name etched on red and white.

RAHAYU

Aghast. I know whose name is etched on this red and white. Grandmother's name. Yeah, my grandmother's name. Without wasting any more time I took this pathetic flag. I put this thing in my black bag. Soon I went to my uncle's house in the next village. Rahayu's grandmother lives with her uncle. He wants to reach 70 years old. Grandpa was long dead.

***

I saw Grandma sitting in a rocking chair while singing a flute. My grandmother loved traditional songs.

I actually don't really like that kind of song. I prefer pop music. However, if grandma sings it then I will get carried away in the strains of such Javanese songs like I listened to her thinking out loud, Ed Sheeran.

However, my arrival here was not to ask for a grandmother to sing. Soon I'll see grandma. Say hello. Kukecup. I took the red and white flag from inside the bag. I leave it to grandma.

Grandma looked surprised. The eyes behind his old glasses were so sad. Mouth closed. What happened next was silence. Until slowly, a water fell from the eye of the grandmother, wet the cheeks of the wrinkled grandmother. Holding that flag. It was as if the flag was something that Grandma missed during her lifetime. The more tears fall.

“He promised to marry me after coming home from the war but he never came back. I'm proud of him who valiantly defended his homeland."

The grandmother story.

***

Tomorrow morning. I dug a hole in front of my school's flagpole. I held the red and white flag.  Then I pray for the owner of the red and white flag. And I promise not to waste his sacrifice on behalf of this nation. I will be more active in learning so that it can be useful for this beloved nation.

Today I pray for the owner of this shabby red and white flag. May his sacrifice for the homeland be received by God. And the hero that the nation never knew earned a proper place by God's side.

AMENS.

***

1 year later…

Today is November 10th. I've graduated. I purposely visited this school. I asked my underclassmen, saying no one had ever seen a madman or a ragged camping young man or a hero, who stood in front of the flagpole respectfully.