Die Lonely
The translation of Cok Sawitri’s Indonesian short story “Mati Sunyi” by Tjahaja.
The newspapers wrote about my aunt’s death. Many public figures had commented that this nation had lost one of its best children. A humanitarian hero has gone! This nation was in mourning. Television was no less emotional, starting to compete to air the story of the nation’s child. Even the government ordered the raising of the national flag at half-mast. The honor was given because this nation’s child had made the nation proud. At a time when the nation had been under scrutiny for its lack of respect for human rights, there had emerged a woman whose every word and action had thrilled the heart, making this nation able to stand up to the rain of criticism on various humanitarian issues.
“If only narrow politics had not come into play, she would have been the one who deserved the Nobel Peace Prize last year!” So said a local newspaper with an almost emotional story quoting a national figure.
As a niece, I was suddenly considered one of the suitable sources to comment on my aunt, perhaps because I was also active in some social activities. Moreover, because the local newspaper found out that I was related to my aunt, my name suddenly became popular, and therefore I was busy answering questions from national and international journalists. I was busy explaining many things, including the plan for the funeral ceremony and ngabèn (cremation).
But it was difficult to answer the reporters’ questions honestly. What should I say? All of Auntie’s life story was public knowledge. All of Auntie’s actions had always made headlines. In fact, they now wanted to find something else, something unique, to be gained from my aunt’s life story, if necessary, the exotic and newsworthy, the hidden ones in my aunt’s life. Ah, my aunt’s life went normally. The marriage was good. Nothing was wrong with her children. Everything was normal and smooth. Auntie was a mother and a wife. A perfectly normal human being. What else was there to write about?
Well, they ended up choosing the ngabèn ceremony as the story angle. Not bad for uniqueness value. Wasn’t it true that Auntie, who had been known to be very modern, independent, and distant from customs, and even often criticized customs, would actually follow customary rites at the time of her death?
For the news chasers, Auntie’s admirers, the planned ceremony was an expression of admiration for how Auntie, despite her global reach, had remained true to tradition. Whoops! The humanitarian hero did have strong roots. The roots of tradition and local wisdom. As proof of how resilient her personality was in the face of change as well as within that change… it was evident that despite her globalist point of view… the ngabèn ceremony would be carried out… etc! etc.
I looked down with a headache.
Shall I say that for this village, the village where Auntie was born and grew up until she was a teenager, my aunt was a nobody, even though both Auntie and her late husband had been officials in the district during their lifetime, and by bloodline, Auntie and her husband were of noble descent? Even though Auntie was in the news every day and got awards every week, she was still not a special person to the people of this village.
Auntie and her husband had left the village long ago, in pursuit of progress. When her husband passed away, Auntie became active in humanitarian activities. In the reform era, Auntie’s name became famous when she organized peace movements. Her name was not just famous on a national level. She was respected internationally, too. Her speech was heard by world leaders as well as spiritual leaders.
On the contrary, for a long time, in this village, Auntie was no longer part of the community. Auntie and uncle had not been active in the banjar for a long time, and neither had their children. They no longer participated in the ceremonial and social activities of the village. Even if they came occasionally, they came on vacation to take care of the inherited house and land, or they went home, like now, at the moment of death.
Yes, flags were raised at half-mast on the village streets. But for the past three days, since Auntie's body was laid at the inheritance house, only a few villagers had come to mourn. Those who mourned, I knew, did so not out of respect for Auntie, but out of remembrance of the other family members. They remembered meeting my father, my uncles, and other aunts. Meanwhile, other villagers chose to feign ignorance.
Even in the extended family, almost everyone came to mourn, but everyone acted as a guest; no one stayed long, all as if giving a signal. Back then, wasn’t this how your aunt would treat us when we faced death?
I understood their attitude. Other family members were equally understanding. Auntie’s lifelong attitude towards the local society and family had long been gossip. And of course, my cousins, my aunt’s children, did not realize that society and family were secretly punishing my aunt and her family.
A typical protest against the attitude of Auntie and her children, who rarely came back to the village and rarely had time for family events, was brewing, flowing calmly in the village air. So calm—as calm as the peace my aunt fought for.
It was long expected that this kind of retaliation would come from the villagers against Auntie and her children. The retaliation was so subtle, far from being spoken. No insults or regrets about Auntie’s attitude during her life. They knew that silence was the best way to deal with the dead.
Well, for a long time, I also experienced indecision. Whenever I went to Jakarta or met some of this country’s public figures, and they asked questions and considered Auntie as someone who was very influential in her hometown, I always choked up and could only smile wryly.
Oh-ho! Auntie did walk on her own ideas and notions. Worthy of admiration. It’s only natural that everyone admired her actions, especially the progress of the mass media, especially newspapers, when they wrote about Auntie’s stand for humanity, making Auntie’s presence expected everywhere to be held and listened to. Auntie’s words were influential and were always quoted. Auntie was great, consistent, and undoubtedly honest!
But I should tell her admirers that whatever Auntie did was not related to the society she came from. All her activities were far away from this village. Auntie’s ideas and thoughts were for the people of the world. Not for the people in the village. Auntie’s hometown had its share of humanitarian problems, from poverty to crime, from politics to riots, just like other villages, just like the common problems society faces today. Just like what my aunt fought for.
However, my aunt never involved herself in finding solutions to problems in her own village. What Auntie stood for was national and international humanity… as one person commented, “She is indeed a woman ahead of her time!”
And it always made me smile wryly whenever I remembered how many famous activists were in awe of Auntie and thought she must have solid, fanatical followers. Gosh, should I say Auntie was not the kind of informal figure usually well-known in villages who was loved blindly by their people? Auntie was a nobody in her home village. Even if you tried to get Auntie involved in solving a problem in her birthplace village, there was no need to bet that whatever advice Auntie gave would not be listened to by the people of her birthplace village. It’s ironic that Auntie was most likely to be quoted in the newspapers. It was as if her words would change the attitude of the whole village, but it was only news in the newspaper. Villagers had their own figures. People who were present at all times in joy and sorrow, in their own language, and as their own role models.
“Your mom is famous, but what good is her fame at this point?! You think everyone will come to help with your mother’s funeral?! Just because she’s a famous person?!”
I choked up.
My youngest uncle started roaring and glaring at my aunt’s eldest son. As one of the officials of the adat village, my youngest uncle certainly knew what the society had been gossiping about my aunt’s funeral plan.
“I’ve always suggested that when your mother dies, just cremate her in Java! Don’t dream of having a big funeral ceremony. Even if you have money, you can buy anything, but what’s the point?! Everyone in the village was reluctant to mourn. They are reluctant to help you. Because of what? Because you never thought that they exist and live! Ask yourself: Have you ever been involved in the hard work when they made a ceremony?! Now you demand your rights as a villager. Have you ever fulfilled your own obligations?! Is this the kind of justice your mom fought for? Now demand the same treatment. But did your mom ever treat them fairly?! Your mom could only criticize the customs! Could only demand changes. Suggested a common attitude. Now they have obeyed your mom’s teachings. Practicing the same attitude your mom had towards them!”
“So, don’t be grandiose! Your mom is only big on news. But she has lost her roots. Losing the bond with people she fought for! Especially with people in this village!”
I stepped away.
My cousins would have a hard time understanding. They had been away from this village since childhood, even far away from this country. All they knew was that their mother was a famous humanitarian who was respected by many. A mother who was always attentive to many people. A mother who was loving and attentive to injustice!
Logically, villagers would be proud of their mother. Surely this village would be in mourning for days, grieving the death of one of its people who was regarded as a world humanitarian figure! Naturally, they would mobilize, without being asked, to help make the ngabèn ceremony for their mother’s death a success. Moreover, weren’t the village’s storybooks telling about the strong tradition of mutual cooperation, love, and respect?
The shouts between my youngest uncle and the cousins slowly faded away, disappearing in the big house that remained eerily quiet.
The mourners who came from afar, who knew Auntie from newspapers and discussion rooms, and who were fascinated by Auntie’s ideas, could not contain their shock when they came. They couldn’t hide the shock in their eyes: Why is this big house so quiet?! From what they had heard and read, if there was a death, the villagers would come together to do social service. Moreover, there would be a plan for a big ngabèn ceremony for a figure who was so influential. Wasn’t it usually the case that if one resident died, all residents, if necessary, would stay at the mourning home for days as a sign of solidarity and respect? But this was the reality. The only people who came to mourn Auntie were those from afar; those who were close by didn’t seem to know that there was a dead body in the house.
Oh, there’s that argument again.
Why not just cremate her in Java? Or in Denpasar? Now it was possible to have a quick funeral without having to perform the complete ceremony! Why did Auntie’s children feel the need to give her the final gift of the complete ngabèn ceremony? Oh my God! They certainly couldn’t be prohibited from bringing Auntie’s body home. Of course, it was not prohibited to plan a big ceremony. They wanted to honor their mother. They also had money. But did they know that ngabèn did not only require money but also social support? And did they know that Auntie had never done any social service for any activity in the village, not even a donation? Auntie was inexplicably stingy and critical of her own family and society, even cynical. I didn’t know why…
Did they think this was some kind of wedding reception where everything could be bought or took place in a hotel?
I felt the horror creeping across the family’s faces that night as they sat together to finalize the plan for my aunt’s funeral.
My aunt’s children persisted with their plan. Amazingly, Auntie’s ngabèn ceremony would also be attended by many journalists and officials.
“You think inviting guests is easy? Who will take care of her? Do you think that with a multi-story badé (bier), there is no need for manpower to carry her to the cemetery? You think it will be easy to get people to carry your mother’s badé?!” Everyone began to get hysterical, imagining a chaotic ceremony.
“Calm down! I have created a organizer. I know it’s impossible to get help from the people of this village. Therefore, we hire a caterer for the accommodation and banquet of the guests. To carry the badé to the cemetery, we hire construction workers. Then the transportation is already there; the travel will take care of it,” Auntie’s eldest son, now a wealthy businessman, shared his plan.
“We ask only one thing: all the family members, please attend, so that in the eyes of mom’s friends, we still look united. Mom and we are guilty… Please don’t punish us like this.”
I looked down. Sobs began to break out. For some reason, even though all the work and equipment needed for the ngabèn had been booked and hired, there was still an eerie silence in the big house. Like something broke, then fell in the middle of a quiet land, the breeze made you feel lonely. So lonely.
Everything has been neatly planned. Finally, the whole family wanted to be involved as organizers. Not because of Auntie, but rather to save the family’s face!
And the D-day arrived. Hundreds of cars lined the road. The mourners who came from afar, from various cities and countries, arrived early in the morning. The sound of the gamelan, guest greeters, and banquet went smoothly. Orderly. Even too orderly. Everything was organized almost perfectly.
Then the ngabèn ceremony began. It also went smoothly, conducted by a skilled organizer. The badé bearers in their shop-smelling uniforms began to move Auntie’s body towards the cemetery, cheering enthusiastically. It became the target of cameras and admiration.
The village streets were bustling. All the villagers came out, but they just sat in front of their houses as spectators to my aunt’s funeral procession. Yes. Just watching. As if this procession were not part of this village. Everyone just watched with a look that was hard to translate! They were far different from the mourners, friends, and admirers of my aunt, who were overwhelmed by the grandeur and festivity of the ceremony. As if hearing my aunt’s speech again: Let’s live together; let’s live in diversity, because we are the same human beings!
Then at the cemetery, before the body was burned with a rented stove, a minister gave a speech and several political figures who were said to have a chance of becoming president gave remembrance speeches. The flashes and camera beams were relentless. Wreaths of condolence were piled up, covering the kiln. Everything went smoothly, orderly, and punctual, just like my aunt, who was always disciplined and punctual.
Just before noon, Auntie’s body was set on fire. Flames twisted into the sky. The sky was clear, accompanied by the sound of gamelan. The momentary silence forced tears to fall. Death always creates a sense of loss. And that’s when the mourners, public figures, journalists, and people who admired Auntie started saying goodbye. One by one, they shook Auntie’s children’s hands with great affection.
A child of the nation had gone. The humanitarian hero had gone. I could faintly hear the voice of the TV presenter relaying a view directly from the cemetery. And when the fire went out, I was freed from my reverie and from my melancholy. Then I looked left and right, counting the number of people still in the cemetery. Well, it was just the family members and hired people who were busy calculating their working hours and wages.
I looked for my father with trembling eyes. I also searched for the faces of my cousins. I searched the faces of all the family members. The smell of cremation smoke stopped my thoughts and stopped my heart. I felt suddenly so lonely. Alone and away from the world. Away from friends, away from everything. Far away. Oh, it’s like living in another world. So different.
Auntie was now in another world. Lonely. There was no need for anyone other than herself. Just like when she was alive.
(Bali, early May 2003)
