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poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers (Evgeny Yevtushenko)
well, the clause of the day is “i love poetry”
I always love poetry and the same clause goes to poets (yes this is confession # 1)
Saleh ben Joned, a malaysian poet whose work i studied when i was at UKM once stated that poetry is the most private from all genre of literary work. to put it in other words, sometimes it’s only the poets who know the meanings of the piece they’ve just penned.
in my words, this private aspect makes poetry “mysterious” to most people. yes it is mysterious in any sense of the word.
as a person trained in literary criticism, i confess that reading poetry is the most challenging task i’ve ever faced. let alone analyzing it! wah, it’s like doing my hard regime of work out before participating in a martial art competition (it was years ago and i got Silver). yeah, its mysterious; hard to unveil; and difficult to comprehend.
however, naturally it challenges me and i naturally love challenges. yah, what to say, i am my parents’ daughter. it’s in the blood.
yes, challenge is another aspect which makes me smitten with poetry. quoting the great russian poet i’ve mention above that poetry ignores all frontiers. my understanding of his words is poetry challenges rules. in other words, it’s rebellious.
aih, i have this penchant to instantly in love with rebels. (for your information, my Ibu told me i m a rebel).
mmmm…..i contemplate that if i have this intention to marry, i’ll marry poets. to me poets (writers in general) are sexy (confession # 2).
nah, do you know why i ramble about marrying a poet today. because the semester break will start next week and it’s likely i’ll spend much time at home in bukittinggi. it means, i’ll spend more time with my family.
then?
it means during the two months course of the semester break, somebody will raise this question when i m gonna get married.
so?
it means i need to invent answers for that typical question which will hit me blow after blow.
hah?
and they will not stop despite my battered, black and blue with shame and humiliation psyche.
god!
they will only stop ambushing me with those annoying questions when they succeed to make me sit next to a bride groom on a pelaminan, a marriage altar.
worse, the more pressing matter is my family’s home is right next to a mosque, where couple solemnize their marriage, and right dead in front of KUA office, where couples register their marriage.
what more?
not far my my back yard is a the village’s communal bath where girls and ladies bath, do the laundry or dishes, in short, gather and gossip. and the hottest gossip feed is “the unmarried maidens in the village”.
yes, m dead. definitely finished. i envision my mom will nag me whenever she she has chances (she is as persistent as i am you know). cepat kawin!!!!!!
anyone please help me! give me a poet!
soon.
i used to be skeptical when told by some of my malaysian friends that their maids are stupid, naive, and spoil. but reading the article from the Star below, i begin to believe in their stories.
Employers against mandatory days off
PETALING JAYA: Employers are against the proposal to grant a mandatory day off in a week for their maids.
Some of them expressed concern that their maids would mix with bad hats if they were allowed to roam freely on their days off.
They felt that off days should be on a mutual basis between the employer and the maid and not be dictated by law.
A housewife from here who wished to be known only as Puan Azizah said her Indonesian maid of 13 years had never asked for a day off and she seemed happy to be working for the family on a full-time basis.
“Where will they go on their own if they get an off day?” she asked.
Another employer W.H. Khoo, 44, expressed concern that the maids would be distracted and there was a danger of them mixing with the wrong company.
“I take my maid to the cinema and shopping. But I will discourage the proposal of a mandatory day off for maids,” she said.
Jim, 62, who works with a trading company said he did not mind taking his maid along on family outings but he was worried about his maid’s safety if she was to be on her own.
Asean Federation for Psychiatry and Mental Health president Prof Dr Mohamad Hussain Habil said one day off was inadequate and maids should be treated equally like any worker under labour laws.
He added that a guideline should also be set for employers on the do’s and don’ts in treating their maids.
(http://thestar.com.my/news/story.asp?file=/2009/6/18/nation/4139629&sec=nation)
imagine folk! according to…“some of them their maids would mix with bad hats if they were allowed to roam freely on their days off”. this excerpt shows us that those maids are really ignorant if not idiotic so they can never judge who to befriend and who do avoid. ah, poor kind employer. it has become a burden for them to protect maids with child-like quality they have hired. the slogan is “the white man’s malaysian employers’ burden”. (thanks Rudyard Kipling!).
Moreover, this Puan Azizah said [that] her Indonesian maid of 13 years had never asked for a day off and she seemed happy to be working for the family on a full-time basis. see…..working for 13 years without a single day off and SEEMED happy about it. i think her maid is really stupid. i believe the maid has no single knowledge on articles in labor law about rights of workers, so she never asks for a day off. OR, she loves her master so much that she will never leave her master’s side. Or, the master is simply exploitating her maid’s dilligent nature and naivity. If I were the maid, i would ask for some days off. i m no robots and i need sometimes to have fun (of course nobody will hire me as maid there he he he he).
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stupid maids. no, i will soften my language. un-learned maids. ah no. it must be naive maids. not too.
bah, whatever!!!! but one true thing. those less-lucky-less-powerful-less-educated human are being exploited by their more bla bla bla human fellow because of their so many less-ness.
my words: it’s colonialism in its new face.
yes, today is my b’day. no celebration: nothing to celebrate.
my students have been ringing me since last nite greeting me: “happy birthday miss”. and i’ve been dully answered them: “thank you dear”.
yeah, i am a year older. some people i’ve met told me that your birthday is a reminder that you have lost another year of your predestined time allotment to live. in a sense they are correct. I, however, do not see my birthday in the same pessimistic manner.
i will never look forward to dying. I will never look gloomy on my birthday ( for bigger numbers when asked about my age , more wrinkles, more crow feet, more cellulite, sagging breasts, shrinking cheeks, missing teeth, arthritis, thinning hair, losing the seduction power of my lips, losing my curve, cloudy eyes and the list is on and on). I feel beautiful: it means I am beautiful. I feel young: definitely I am young. No question on that.
this day is my winning day. yes Death will ultimately come. But living my birthday today means i’ve won the negotiation with the Death. in other words, this year i have succeeded to make it agree to delay its ultimate visit.
yes i do not want to die (now) . Quoting Chairil Anwar, “I want to live for another thousand year”.
there are lots of projects i have in mind. there is this grand dream looming in my imagination. i have this obsession to make this world a better place.
all in all, happy birthday to me. see you again next birthday.
nah, this good mr. benjamin netanyahu has agreed on the notion of two-state solution to resolve the israeli-palestine conflict. we cheer him for that. yet, the idea of a demilitarized palestine scripted in his late speech is a no brainer jotting.
it is like telling me:
“delvi you are free now. but, you cannot speak up your mind. you are not allowed to leave your compound without our permission. you cannot build your home on your rightful land. you cannot claim things belong to you. you cannot defend you self when we violate your honor. you are free but both of your hands and feet must be amputated. oh yeah, you are free but we take your tongue away.”
it is not freedom my boy. it is new form of oppression. i do think the prime minister is not serious about ending the bloody conflict between these two nations. in his speech, he did not offer peace to the palestinians. he offered them death instead. a country without military force is a body without immunity system. it will die soon it’s born.
nah, for you who are not familiar with presidential election in my country, this is a diary of a wong cilik or small people/poor people reflecting a dark glimpse hidden behind the massive curtain bordering sweet promises laced political speeches and the real world where i live in
well, the naked fact amidst these whirlpool of political manifestos revolving around presidential election in my country, indonesia is the heavy politicization of poor people.
yup, without the existence of poor people, my class, those presidential hopefuls do not really have many things to elaborate in their fiery political speeches ( i began to doubt whether poor people is a bless of a bliss)
so this is the diary. happy reading!
market day,
i always think that it is a bless to be born in or part of this class of people in indonesia. why? we are so lucky since every powerful people or those who aspire to be powerful put so much concern to our measly and messy life.
some of them even bother to descend from their mud free exquisite balcony to our mire- ridden-fly-and-maggot-infested- smelly wet market deep in the untouchble part of the town. they care to ask how’s life with us. it is a luxury you know: those godly like personalities (why? you know they come to our market with this large entourage comprised of umbrella bearers, bodyguards, hand bag bearers. in short, so many people serving one person) in shiny extravagant car, which i will never be able to afford, are saying: “how’s business today”? ah, i want nothing more before i die. what more we small people want?
the other day, a soon-to-be powerful man endorsed my uncle’s shoes collections bearing the initial of his name. it was an honor. he insisted that the brand of his product will be the same from that day on. he believed those initial would bring luck. you know what, a pair of shoes bequethed to that man took him a full month to finish it. he prayed hard the man bestowed with his craft will create a better day for his small business and future. “hopefully”, my uncle told me, “the man, the next owner of this pair of shoes, will make tomorrow brighter for you dear niece”.
yesterday, a-soon-to-be powerful lady bought a blouse from my aunty’s tiny cardboard shop. i heard that my aunty never uses the money she received from that grand lady to buy rice and vegetable. that note is a charm. a symbol of hope that one day, a person as powerful as that lady will do some magic and transform my aunty’s liliput shop into a better one. it means, there will be a better future for her metally disable daughter. one more thing, a scavenger whom i befriend since the day i know that i am a girl and he is a boy related that the same grand old lady with her running mate visited the waste land where he scratches for his life everyday. lots of promises mentioned there he informed me.
and only just now, a big good looking man with his equally good looking wife visited my father’s stall and had an earthly chat with him. i could see it that my father was beaming. his face was so radiant with hope. yes, he was hoping all pledges mouthed my those-smiling-all-the-way powerful people will materialize soon. my father wants me to be a doctor, so i can attend him when he gets sick. but, we are just small trader who seem to be avoided by luck. mom died when she tried to bring me to the world. father never answers me whenever i ask where my mother is. a prostitute living in a slimy quarter next to my father’s tiny stall i call mami (she is not my mom yet she used to comb my hair before i go to school which i had left three months ago for my father’s inability to pay my tuition) broke the secret that mom died because of dangerous bleeding during the course of laboring. father simply was unable to afford to secure some packs of blood.expensive.
expensive! yes, expensive is the word my father always uses to silence me whenever i nag him to buy me my childhood fantasy. whenever this word uttered, i know i will never get what i want.
but the day those soon-to-be-powerful people visited us, everybody saw hopes. they dared to dream. i hope those dreams and hopes will come true. they have promised us, haven’t they. they even signed a contract with us, poor people.
everybody, but an old leper beggar stationing himself before a musholla’s gate, believed that things will change.
“but why, grandfather?” my young mind questioned his scepticism. “five years ago, there were also powerful gods man and woman descended to this market. yes, five years ago. they brought many promises and blew this wind coming from nirvana. at that time i believed in what they were saying whole heartedly. i am still waiting for one of the gods to revisit me and fulfill their promises to me. it’s been five years my child and nothing happens”
ah, probably it is written. probably it is the destiny of small people like us to live this difficult life. yes, it must have been written.
nearly ten, after helping my father packing his merchandise for tomorrow.
well, apart from my three years studying there and a boy had stolen my heart, malaysia really means a lot to me.
it is the first foreign country i stepped my feet into. everything was so foreign and not so foreign: the face of an air asia stewardess was so foreign but at the same time i could trace the resemblance between the two of us, our same brown skin color. it made her not so foreign anymore. when she announced something in malay, i was startled. this wave of foreign sound somehow blocked the flow of oxygen to my brain. i felt strangled. yet at the same time, the language sounded familiar as well. they were the same syllables, the same vowels, the same consonants yet different tones. minutes before landing, the captain announced in english that we were about to land. i looked out the window and saw a never ending vista of palm oil plantations. it looked foreign and i knew this land was not my home anymore. but, after the second look, i no longer thought it looked alien: the same grass, the same bush, the same greenery.
however, when i entered the KLIA terminal and queued for immigration inspection, i learned fast that i was a foreigner: not one of them. these immigration officers really looked distant: i did not know them; i could not understand their language; i did not feel secure.
i always think that all of the procedures i needed to go through in the immigration booth at that time was an ordeal. it somehow rooted me from my pride, the notion which defines my self. the gaze i got from the immigration officers destory my confidence. that single look bore thousands meanings: differences between me and them. in short, it denied me the feeling of being home; the feeling of being with people i know and know me.
it was horribly traumatic since i know that the world beyond the immigration section of KLIA was a dangerous zone for me, a foreigner. there, i was an alien who would only be legible to stay there for a limited time. yes. that was the first thing the serving malaysian immigration officer told me:
“you are only permitted to stay in west and east malaysia for one year. after that permit expires, you need to re-new your student visa otherwise your stay would be deemed illegal.”
i was agitated. at home i could stay as long as i wish. no need for visa. no need for multiple entry. no need to carry my passport to a sundry shop just to buy female sanitary napkin of which brand i never heard before. ah, one lesson, i am not home. it was different.
i was different. everything is different. even my english is different from that spoken around me. they knew it that i was not one of them from my english:
“where are you from?”
“down south”. i answered proudly.
soon i learned that being different was deadly, especially to my sense of pride.
“you do not look like local girl. are you indon*? which kilang** you are working at?
it was a common and everyday insult to my pride, an indonesian in malaysia.
“i came to malaysia to study burning my parents money not to work as factory worker or construction worker or cleaner”, it was what my pride self told me over and over again.
yes, i was a student there not a worker. our visa was different even the booth we go into to process our permit at the indonesia embassy was different. it was a matter of class. i felt i was higher, nobler that those coarse, uneducated, naive workers.
yes, we were different, but wait! i felt i know them. i felt secure when one of them was near me. i thought i understood their different tongue. i imagined we were one people. i felt my home manifested in their greeting, smile and stories. i am them.
yes! we were one people. apart from our differing class, i mean our differing fortune (i was born in a family of dedicated parents who will break their back to send me to school, so hopefully i don’t have to end up as “worker”), different mother tongue (minangkabaunese, javanese, sundanese, timorese,…….), different look, we are one nation.
finally, the pain from the traumatic event of leaving home, where you have this notion of security, and coming to a foreign terrain somehow dissappeared but not completely. insults from un-learned malaysians who were not aware that not all of indonesians are menial workers or poor people were still there. i went thru this ordeal almost every day during my three years living there.
however, leaving home has given me one most important thing in life: the sense of selfhood, identity. i am delvi, an indonesian.
*indon: derogatory term. at first it was not derogatory.the usage of this was the same as paki for pakistani or bangla for bangladeshi. it was purely for the reason of convenience and practicability. yet, at a later development, this term was deemed as derogatory, especially by an indonesian of my tipe. we always preach to those people that no nation called indon in this world. indonesian? yes that’s what we are. so encik-encik and puan-puan please mind your term.
**kilang: factory in malay. most of malaysians i met, excluded my lecturers and class mates, would think that we were factory workers.
because this is just an amateur political analysis, please forgive my shallowness.
BEFORE
then comes this news (not news actually but concern) about the heads of her husband’s political opponents who vie for the president post next july.
then, look at this AFTER picture
well, i never know why ms. ani yudhoyono cover her head. is it purely religious reason? is it about fashion? is it political reason, so she could boost her husband’s electability amongst the muslim voters?
to be honest, i never know the answer. i have no right to be judgmental either. however, i know for sure that you can politicize everything…everything… including your wive’s head.
ah so anal this politics is.
ps: again please forgive my shallowness, i have no time to searh for better picture of the covered ms. ani. in the second picture: ms. ani is the lady in light blue blouse and white head cover.
