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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.
