The People’s Librarian

Before I left Indonesia, I made a promise that I leave with a kenangan — as a gift to remind myself how the country transformed me. A week before my departure, I interviewed Eko Cahyono, the founder of Perpustakaan Anak Bangsa, and the man who I happened to meet sometime in 2016 at a Toastmasters meeting. My name is Eko, he said, and I have a library. “You should come and visit.” I did — and discovered his story.

This piece was first published on Rappler Indonesia


 

 

BEYOND THE RIVERS OF SUKOPURO, in a house built of bricks and stones, a marriage is falling apart. Her husband of 12 years is off to find a new wife — a woman whose womb could continue a lineage.

One morning, in an attempt to distract herself from reality, she leafs through the pages of a book she plucked from a shelf. She wipes her wet cheeks, yet already a fresh stream of tears water the table.

“Mbak Mina,” a familiar voice asks, “why do you weep?”

“My husband is filing a divorce.”

The year is 2003 in Indonesia, and the country is in a ruckus. A series of bomb blasts rock a hotel and an airport in Jakarta. A peace negotiation between the government and Free Aceh Movement collapsed. Meanwhile, a librarian in a small village on the eastern part of Java is baffled: how can he appease a woman at fault for a childless marriage?

Suddenly, Eko’s phone rings, and Mina is left in midair.

The woman speaking on the other line is giving out her back issues of Femina magazine. “There’s 400 of them at home,” she says. “Please take them.” She’s leaving for Surabaya, and the magazines had to go — to someone else’s hands, or to the junk.

He looks at Mina, and tells her to wait. “Someone wants to donate Femina, your favourite read.” He hops on his motorcycle, and the engine revs. The woman lives in Malang City, some 15 kilometres away from Sukopuro, a village in Jabung in the regency of Malang, in between fields of sugar cane and rice paddies.

A couple of hours later, he returns to the library. He shows Mina the magazines that came in a sack. He leaves the second time to take the remaining loot. He would never find her again, except for a note she left on his table

Eko,

I am borrowing four copies of Femina. If my plan to fly to Hong Kong to work as a domestic pushes through, I will have my neighbour return these on my behalf.

Mina

It’s one of those days where he wished there are more things he’s capable of doing, like casting spells on a barren womb, so women didn’t have to live at fault for a marriage that failed.

“But who am I?” he utters in silence. “I’m just a librarian”

His name is Eko Cahyono. To many he is called Mas Eko, a Javanese term of respect towards older men. To others, they call him a recognition-seeker, a freak whose life swirl around piles of papers. To some, a curator of lewd literature.

“At the village,” he once said, “people don’t have much to do but sit idly and chat.”

It was that culture that he wishes to break.

 

 

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THE DAYS of 1998 meander. The leather factory where he works shut down in the wake of a financial crisis. And then jobs became hard to find. To relieve himself from a tormenting repetitive cycle of days, he read all what he could find at home.

One day at the village, he meets an old man scanning through the words printed on a newspaper. The man was reading — upside down. It was in that moment he felt a fire in his belly, and soon his house is transformed into into a public space. At their terrace, he would hang magazines and tabloids on a clothesline. At night when they weren’t reading, they sang. Sometimes, they would discuss about public matters. Right in his family’s house, a library was born.

On some days he would knock on doors. And when a door opens, he smiles at the eyes that emerge from it. “Would you like to donate books?” It was a script that didn’t take a long time to master, except that he had to say repeat such line from one house to another, so they who came will always have something new to read.

He was Nuh and the library was his ship. He moved more than 10 times, until finally a neighbour offered a perfect deal: an empty land beside a peaceful graveyard – for rent. In 2008, there it was, a library built of bamboo and asbestos. He named it Perpustakaan Anak Bangsa, the library of the nation’s child. At the entrance, a pole stands with a flag on top, the emblem of their land.

They came and read, and he takes care of the rest. For a time, together with his sisters, they would sell coffee, cigarettes, and gorengan to pay for electricity. Later his sisters would begin their own families, and he would be on his own. He wrote stories and sold them to newspapers. He manned book fairs. He earned commissions from loan referrals. He did all sorts of jobs to pay the rent. And when they weren’t enough, he sold what he had: his television and a motorycle.

One stormy night, a tree falls and violently crashes the library’s roof. The next morning, he knew something had to be sold again.

Perhaps, he thought, “I could sell one of my kidneys.”


 

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NOBODY IN THE VILLAGE, not even his parents, thought of the idea that an erstwhile factory worker and a high school graduate would become a librarian.

Those who frequently visit fondly call him mas, and loved him dearly. But others thought he was a joke, others called him sok cari nama, or someone who just wanted to gain popularity. They belittled him and talked at his back. Once, police came after they caught wind that he was harboring pornography at the library, even if it were just magazines that tread on sexuality and reproductive health, even if it were just a pile of Femina, a favourite among housewives who felt empowered for reading it.

So when the police who came finding no evidence, they ended up borrowing books.

Here is a library, where readers find company and answer to uneasy questions, like how does a 12-year-old student cope with life when the head of his family, the one who’s supporting them, is only given 6 months to live?

This was the story of Tema, who few years ago run into Eko for advise. He was contemplating of quitting school  — even if he were only months away from graduation. His father’s diabetes has affected his nervous system. An operation had to be performed on top of expensive medications. Someone had to pay the bills, and at that young age Tema felt it had to be him.

Seandainya aku ini orang sakti.” If only I were a man of supernatural powers, Eko said in a thick Javanese accent.

But what can a librarian do?

He tucked books inside his bag. The books were about reflexology, another about ancestral heritage, and the other on traditional medicine. Seven months later, he returned, wearing a high school uniform. It was those books that he lend Tema that gave his father a new lease of life.

Beyond the rivers of Sukopuro, there is a library – and it’s evidently more than that.


 

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JULY 2017. FEW DAYS AFTER LEBARAN. As I came to visit the library to capture the librarian’s life in photographs, a 16-year-old walks into the library. He grabs Eko’s right hand. Gently he presses it into his forehead. He moves to my direction and does the same to mine. He asks whether it’s alright to come in. It’s fine, Eko tells him. He dashes into the comics section, and Eko returns to his table.

“That’s Arif. He stays at a pesantren nearby,” Eko tells me, “so when he’s free, he comes here to take a break from school-related readings. Some fifteen minutes later, the boy, clad in apple green sweatshirt, is one with silence. As he nestles behind a towering bookshelf, a book transports his mind into another world.

On Eko’s table are piles of books, a plate full of rice cake wrapped in banana leaves, some drinking water in plastic cups, nuts and spicy rice chips stored in glass jars.

Another visitor emerges from the doorway. He lifts the tarpaulin, the only material that’s covering it. He shakes our hands, and later asks Mas Eko for Aloe Vera leaves. “That’s another regular visitor, they have livestock at home,” he tells me. Later, he extends his arm for another round of handshakes. He couldn’t stay longer, he says, and lifts the tarpaulin cover. “Salamualaikum.”

The books, tens of thousands of them stored inside this 72-square-metre space, are left unguarded, and it’s meant to be that, Eko says, so people can come and borrow whatever they want. Unlike many libraries, the only rule here is to read.

When UNESCO study revealed that in Indonesia, only 1 out of 1000 people read a book per year, he was one of those who raised an eyebrow: who says Indonesians don’t read?

“At the library the least number of people who come here every day hovers at 50,” he said.

“Indonesians like to read, if they’re given convenient access to libraries. They read, if libraries allow them to read any time of the day, without the usual bureaucracy of requiring them to photocopy their KTP, pay administration fees, and fine them when they couldn’t return the book in a week.”.

Outside the library, a giant mango tree’s shadow falls on a grove of purple boat lilies and snake plants that spiraled from the earth, as if triggered by a recording of a sindhen singer blaring from neighbour’s stereo. There are herbs planted in pots made from cut plastic bottles. A goat bleats, taking turns with the crowing cocks while they scratch their bamboo cages. The smell of burning wood under a boiling pot of rice wafts the air.

It was in 2011 when the library was finally reconstructed into a concrete hall, through the help of donors. And since then, it sits on land it rightfully belongs. On its wall, I see picture frames, medals, and trophies chronicle the history of a library with a whopping 8,000 membership. They are students, factory workers, teachers, and household wives that come here to read from a collection classified in the whims of the librarian: wow memukau (awakening), petunjuk hidup (guide to life), superpower, khusus kutu buku (exclusive for bookworms), super hot, kontroversi (controversies), among others.

They read and borrow, and return the books at their own pace. Yet the books have always found their way back. “I’d like to think that the books are just out there travelling with their readers,” he once told Andy Noya, a celebrated TV host in the country.

Among those on ‘travel’ list is Laskar Pelangi, a fictional story of young students on Belitung island in Sumatra, where the kids and their teachers struggle to keep a lone elementary school in the village running, a familiar story not far different from the library’s: that sometimes, noble acts of kindness arise from those who barely have anything.

The book was away for a good three years beginning in 2006, passing from one hand to another. So in 2008, Andy pledged to give the library 25 copies of it. Another 25 of Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code, and another for dictionaries. The meek librarian tried his best to contain his happiness as a thunder of applause drowns the studio. It was a moment well-kept in pictures that hang on the wall. Another frame describes Eko as a hero. Beside is a picture of him with President Joko Widodo taken at the Palace in April. At the time the president invited community librarians around the country to discuss what their needs are. On that day, Jokowi promised to ship 10,000 copies of books to each of them. To make it easy for those who support community libraries, the president asked state-owned Pos Indonesia to make shipping free for those who sent books to libraries every 17th of the month.

I asked Eko what’s in his mind as he looks back all the memories that built Perpustakaan Anak Bangsa. “Biasa aja mas,” he tells me. Nothing extraordinary, an expression that embodies self-restraint. That when you’re doing something for the people, do it without putting things into your head.

This is a story of a man who devoted some good twenty years of his life to a noble cause. Fueling people’s interest towards reading through a village library he built in 1998 is a story truly filled with altruism. To ensure people have something to read, says Eko, is a responsibility. His responsibility.

What motivates him to do all these? Now 37, Eko evaded the question, and instead returns to the stories that built the library.


 

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ONE MORNING IN 2007, while attending to the scores of books that gathered dust and webs, a white Toyota Innova parks in front of his house few steps away from the library. He runs out to find out who it was. The door opens, and a woman in high-heels alights. She asks him where the library is. She must be a donor, he thought.

“How are you, Mas Eko?” the woman in beige dress and crimson red skirt grins. She takes off her sunglasses.

“It’s me, Mina.”

For all those times there had been no news about her, he wondered how her life has been, her divorce and her life in Hong Kong.

Do you remember those magazines I borrowed, Mas Eko? She asked. She read them all. It was those pieces of hand-me-downs that taught her how to improve her fertility. Those magazines that once became a piece of controversy, that jeopardized a library — saved a marriage. Her husband retracted a divorce petition on the day Mina’s doctor found life in her womb. She gave birth to twins.

And the air is filled with solace. There was no need for him to possess super powers. To be a librarian—it was more than enough to transform lives.

Few minutes before I wrapped up the day of interviewing Eko, I studied those amiable almond eyes that returned to the pile of books on the table. “These are new donations up for inventory,” he tells me. The azhan reverberates in the air, and the rays of the afternoon sun beam through a tall glass window — forming a circle of light around his head. It was a glimpse of a day in life of the man they call Mas Eko. But perhaps — beyond the rivers of Sukopuro — a village that is home to where children, housewives, labourers, people from all walks of life could educate themselves through the books they read, there is a term that fits him even more: the people’s librarian. ◊

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How to be a bule (or so they say)

Any recommendation of a good hostel

In Ubud and need to go tomorrow morning

How should I pay?

Anyone here in Indonesia

I have 2 weeks

And will arrive Jakarta

I plan to go by train in

Bali with stops

Along the way

I have a question about this

I arrived in Jakarta this morning

And plan to travel down Java to Bali

And Lombok

Anyone up for meeting anywhere?

I have planned to see the Borobudur and

the Prambanan, after that

I don’t know what to do?

Someone in Ubud in the next 3 days

I’m planning to do the rice fields and monkey

forest. If someone wants to join

Let me know

I would like to do self-guided hiking/trekking trips

Whether day hikes or multi-day trips

I don’t want to go with a guide

And I prefer not to travel too much to keep

The costs down

I really want to spend time with nature

Suggestions?

 

(Things bule people say on a Facebook group filled it…bules)

 

 

Adonis Durado’s ‘Dili Tanang Matagak Mahagbong’ in Bahasa Indonesia

Sometime in June this year, I was invited to talk about Philippine literature in Malang, Indonesia. During the event, Denny Mizhar, the founder of Pelangi Sastra Malang read three poems which I translated to Bahasa Indonesia; Adonis Durado’s “Dil Tanang Matagak Mahagbong” was one of them.

Here is my translation of the poem which was originally written in Cebuano:

Tidak Semua Yang Jatuh Akan Turun

Adonis Durado

Bayangkan kawanan burung yang terbang

membuang kotoran di balik awan tebal di atas langit
Apa yang akan terjadi dengan kotoran mereka?
Akankah meluncur utuh
ke atap?
Atau musnah,
Seperti bintang jatuh, yang hancur lebur jauh sebelum
Mencapai telapak tangan kita yang menengadah?
Mungkin tak semua yang jatuh akan turun
Tak semua proyektil punya target –
Segala yang lepas dari tangan (Atau jatuh dari langit)
tak perlu mendarat di mana pun.
Penerjun payung itu hanya beruntung
diselamatkan atap, seperti layangan
yang terjerat tiang listrik;
Buah mangga yang terhempas dari tangkainya;
Hujan yang menetes dari lubang di atap
pada kaleng bekas berkarat—semua ini
mematuhi hukum fisika.
Tapi di manakah (jika benar ada) gelakmu terpelanting
Saat kita melompat sambil cekikikan di atas sumur tua?
Nama-nama dan kata-kata yang sudah kabur dari kenangan:
Ke manakah semua itu pergi?
(Serupa anak yang bertanya:
Angin, yang juga membawa kotak makan siangnya,
bertiup ke mana, jika tidak tertelan gerhana?)
Dan siapa yang berani menjamin cincin
Yang tergelincir dari jarimu dan
Melompat ke ombak itu,
barangkali masih turun,
hingga tiba di kedalaman entah?
Kini, aku ingin percaya
Jiwa-jiwa pasangan kekasih yang meloncat dari tebing itu
Masih terapung-apung entah di mana,
Melayang-layang di udara.

Writer’s note: Wawan Eko Yulianto helped edit this translation

Memperkecil Cinta: Puisi “Bonsai” oleh Edith Tiempo dalam Bahasa Indonesia

Terkadang, bila kita memikirkan tentang cinta, kita menganggapnya seperti pohon: sebuah konsep raksasa yang sulit dipahami manusia. Tetapi, bagaimana jika kita mengecilkan ukuranya seperti membuat bonsai? Apakah cinta menjadi kurang bermakna?

Dalam puisi “Bonsai“, cinta dianggap sebagai hal yang dapat ditemukan bahkan dalam hal-hal terkecil. Bahwa cinta dapat dipegang oleh tangan. Bahwa itu bisa terjadi di hari-hari biasa.

Puisi ini awalnya ditulis oleh Edith Tiempo (1919-2011) dalam Bahasa Inggris. Tiempo adalah seorang penyair, penulis fiksi, guru, dan seorang kritikus sastra dari Filipina.

Dalam tulisan ini, saya menerjemahkan karya beliau ke Bahasa Indonesia karena saya merasa tak seorang penulis pun pernah menggunakan bonsai sebagai metafora untuk cinta.

(UPDATE: Wawan Eko Yulianto helped in editing this translation)

Bonsai
By Edith Tiempo

All that I love
I fold over once
And once again
And keep in a box
Or a slit in a hollow post
Or in my shoe.
All that I love?
Why, yes, but for the moment-
And for all time, both.
Something that folds and keeps easy,
Son’s note or Dad’s one gaudy tie,
A roto picture of a queen,
A blue Indian shawl, even
A money bill.
It’s utter sublimation,
A feat, this heart’s control
Moment to moment
To scale all love down
To a cupped hand’s size
Till seashells are broken pieces
From God’s own bright teeth,
And life and love are real
Things you can run and
Breathless hand over
To the merest child.

Bonsai
Oleh Edith Tiempo

Semua yang kucintai
Aku lipat sekali
Dan sekali lagi
Agar pas masuk kardus
Atau diselipkan dalam bis surat
Atau dalam sepatuku.
Semua yang kucinta?
Tentu sementara saja—
Atau seterusnya, atau keduanya.
Sesuatu yang mudah dilipat dan disimpan,
Surat dari anak atau dasi murahan ayah,
Gambar foto seorang ratu,
Selendang India warna biru,
Bahkan selembar uang kertas.
Inilah sesungguhnya sublimasi,
Prestasi, kemampuan hati ini
Untuk selalu
Memperkecil cinta
Hingga dapat digenggam
Sampai kerang-kerang itu hanya serpihan
Dari gigi-gigi Tuhan yang cemerlang
Dan hidup serta cinta adalah
Hal-hal nyata yang bisa
Kau jalankan dan
Serahkan
Kepada anak semata wayang.

Public domain photo taken here.

Macario Tiu’s “Bago Aplaya” in Bahasa Indonesia

Thanks to Karlo David for the wonderful English translation of Macario Tiu’s Bago Aplaya, which I first read when I was in college.

It’s only now upon reading this translation that I am able to delve into the poem’s deeper meaning.

And as a gesture of gratitude, I have tried my best to translate the poem to Bahasa Indonesia.

Bago Aplaya
Oleh Macario Tiu

Betapa lembut ombak nya
Dan air pasang meninggi

Sang pendeta memberkati perahu;
Dan kita diperciki air suci
Bersama dengan para nelayan yang rendah hati.

Aku senang untuk kebahagiaan mereka, mendapatkan
Alat baru untuk memancing:
Inilah yang kita rayakan. Namun

Betapa lembut ombak nya
Dan air pasang meninggi.

Dan, seperti beberapa penyair tua
Ku merasakan kesedihan yang terus menerus melanda tanpa henti
Terdampar oleh ombak.

Tapi bukan karena aku mendengar
Manusia mendesah tanpa henti
Namun karena keadaan ku yang teramat menyedihkan

Esok, kau tinggalkanku sendiri selamanya
Sedangkan betapa lembut ombak nya
Dan air pasang meninggi.

Lefthandedsnake

Bago Aplaya
by Macario Tiu

Hinay ang tapya sa balod
Ug nagsugod na ang taob.

Namasbas ang pari sa bangkang de motor,
Ug lakip tang nawiskan sa bendita.
Uban sa mga gagmayng mananagat nga nanag-alirong.

Nalipay ako sa ilang kalipay
Nga nakaangkog himan sa panagat:
mao kana ang atong gisaulog.

Apan hinay ang tapya sa balod
Ug nagsugod na ang taob.

Ug sama sa karaang magbabalak,
Akong nabati ang walay kataposang kasubo
Nga dala sa balod.

Apan dili tungod sa pangagho sa katawhan
kondili sa akong kaugalingong kahimtang.
Ugma, mobiya ka na sa hangtod
Samtang hinay ang tapya sa balod
Ug magsugod na ang taob

Bago Aplaya

Gentle is the dashing of the waves
and the tide is rising.

The priest blesses the motor powered boat;
and we are sprinkled by holy water
along with the humble fishermen gathered.

I am happy for their happiness, gaining
a new tool for…

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There’s Another Kind of Poverty That Demands Our Attention

Our common definition of poverty is when people do not meet their basic needs for food, clothing, and shelter, that’s when we start calling them poor. An estimated 896 million people or 12.7 of the world’s population fall under that definition, according to the World Bank. We have cut the poverty rate into half between 1990 and 2015. That’s something we should celebrate, something that should encourage us to strengthen our fight against global poverty.

But there is another form of poverty that we rarely talk about. There is no statistics that could tell how prevalent it is, but what I think is that it affects many of us.

 

Our Poverty of Words

In Indonesia, when one person declares that he’s depressed, it is easy for us to dismiss their state as something of less importance. We think that modern words like galau or baper is the best word to describe what they’re going through.

Galau, by definition, means kacau tidak keruan (pikiran). Many times, I have been told to have gone through kegalauan. Galau, because I don’t look the positive things in life. Galau, because I dwell on painful memories. Galau, because I refuse to move on.

I am impressed by how easy for many people to diagnose what I’m feeling, and I wonder what body of knowledge has turned them into experts in giving unsolicited advice to people suffering from kegalauan.

But of course, as many of you who have experienced kegalauan, galau is not as easy as imagined. In societies where our priority is to fulfil our material needs, there are things that are placed at the sidelines, such as depression, a condition often equated to galau.

 

My Struggle With Depression

I have been sporadically battling with depression since 2008, the beginning my tumultuous journey with life. Between that that year and 2015, I lost a college friend and a mentor, a colleague, an aunt, and encountered hundreds of families grieving for their loved ones washed away by natural calamities in Southern Philippines. The events happened at short intervals, just right after I thought I have recovered from each of them. In 2012, a month after I got the news that I was awarded a scholarship for a postgraduate study, I was informed by my employer that I have been accused of plagiarising a news report, an act that I denied but somehow people like spreading rumours that plagiarism became an inside joke among people I used to consider as friends. They weren’t.

Sure, I know that while the glass is half-empty, it is also half-full. I tried to look at the positive things of every problem, but depression is a selfish companion that thinks only for himself. There would be mornings where mustering the will to get up is a challenging task. Meeting people was a difficult task. You did not want to meet and talk with people. Your subconscious self refuses to talk. You lose vigour. You wish there wouldn’t be tomorrow so there’s no need to wake up next day.

In developing countries, treating depression does not have the same footing with treating common illnesses. It is understandable. After all, I do not expect much for people to see doctors when they feel they’re suffering from depression (as it may be costly). But, what’s not acceptable is when we try to silence depression, as if it weren’t there.

Depression is “the secret we share,” says American writer Andrew Solomon in his TED Talk. The thing keeping secrets is that it makes understanding even more difficult. Solomon discussed in his speech that people tend to confuse depression, grief, and sadness.

“Grief is explicitly reactive. If you have a loss and you feel incredibly unhappy, and then, six months later, you are deeply sad, but you’re functioning a little better, it’s probably grief, and it will probably ultimately resolve itself in some measure. If you experience a catastrophic loss, and you feel terrible, and six months later you can barely function at all, then it’s probably a depression that was triggered by the catastrophic circumstances.” — Andrew Solomon

Solomon went on to expound on the current state of depression treatment in the world, which he described as appalling. “They’re not very effective. They’re extremely costly. They come with innumerable side effects. They’re a disaster.”

He did not mean that people suffering from depression should not go see a specialist. “But I am so grateful that I live now and not 50 years ago, when there would have been almost nothing to be done.”

Such is true, and what we can also do is to treat depression by exploring such state through language.

 

‘Poverty’ and Poetry

In 2002, a research published for National Poetry Day said that England’s National Health Service could save nearly £200,000 a year using poems to help people with depression. The report based on 196 people with psychological problems found that 75% found writing poems as an emotional release. Two thirds found reading or listening to poetry helped them be able to relax and feel calm.

Historically, artists have conveyed depression through metaphors. Emily Dickson described it like “a Funeral, in my Brain.”  Bei Dao saw everything as “an endless beginning” and hope “hedged with doubt.”

But fast forward to the present, depression is simplified into galau.

Unlike economic poverty which is an important discourse globally, we do not talk about poverty of words. We might have different international lending institutions like the World Bank, but we do not have Word Bank, a multi-lateral organisation that aims to battle our word famine. That doesn’t mean, however, there is nothing we can do.

In the summer of 2014, I found myself applying for a literary fellowship, where I met some of the Philippines award-winning writers who gave me a deeper understanding of poetry.

For one week, we would listen to lectures, and in the afternoon, the works we submitted before the workshop would be critiqued by these esteemed writers.

The fellows came from different backgrounds. But what was strikingly common was that all of us were facing battles. We were needing a weapon, so when we come back to our normal lives, would have the ability to navigate the complexities of life.

The task of poetry, according to Filipino poet Mikael Co, is to never run out of words. Its task is to let those who battle the spectre of despair become victorious, in an age where people suffering deep inside continue to find the words that best describe their state of mind.

If some of you happen to be in the same predicament as mine, I invite you to enter the world of poetry, and discover what creative language can do for you, in dire situations where you think there is no more reason for you to live.

Because there is. And to support what I believe, let me leave you a poetry that I continue to read, especially when depression creeps.

 

 

Also All (in answer to Bei Dao’s “All”)

Not all trees are felled by storms.

Not every seed finds barren soil.

Not all the wings of dream are broken,

nor is all affection doomed

to wither in a desolate heart.

No, not all is as you say.

Not all flames consume themselves,

shedding no ling on other lives.

Not all starts announce the night

and never dawn. Not every song

will drift past every ear and heart.

No, not all is as you say.

Not every cry for help is silenced,

nor every loss beyond recall.

Not every chasm spells disaster.

Not only the weak will be brought to their knees,

nor every soul be trodden under.

It won’t all end in tears and blood.

Today is heavy with tomorrow—

the future was planted yesterday.

Hope is a burden all of us shoulder

though we might stumble under the load.

 

 

Photo courtesy of János Csongor Kerekes

My Advice to Young Indonesians Who Aspire to Write in English

 

As many of you might have known, I teach courses in writing at a university in Malang. Writing has been my profession for seven years, and since then the task of filling an empty space with words has been a blessing. Not only has it provided me food on the table, it has pushed me to constantly improve my communication skills through language. In a way, I think that if it weren’t for writing, there would be no reason to mount Durian Writer, my personal blog that brims of my ideas, most of them born from the fragments of thoughts I keep in my diary. Or, if it weren’t for writing, I would have shied away from joining Malang Toastmasters, where each speech project not only requires you to speak in public, but as well as to prepare for a speech that requires a process of crystallising the meat of your talk which shouldn’t go beyond 7 minutes.

I intentionally wrote this piece because there are many young Indonesian students who aspire to become writers in the English language. And to become one is a challenge. One huge factor is that English, like where I teach, is not the medium of instruction. What’s more, in this country, English is not the language for everyday conversation, nor the commonly-used language in mass media.

Of course, I do not mean to disparage Indonesia for this. What I’m concerned, however, is how the English language is taught in schools and how these institutions try to lure the students in enrolling into their programmes using Caucasians in their advertising materials.

There are many literary theories of writing. Therefore, in as much as I want you to read this with a willingness to learn, please do not take my advice as your lone guide to writing. I came up with this piece to share what I think many of the young Indonesian aspiring writers should put into mind.

 

Reading is the Religion of Writers

Just as a painter can’t become one without immersing himself to great works of art, a writer cannot succeed without making reading his religion. When I was practising journalism in the Philippines, my day begins and ends with reading the news to keep myself abreast to the current affairs. I also read newspapers and online reports because I needed to know how other journalists reported the news. One of the journalists that influenced my writing includes my dear friend Germelina. What I like the most in her reports is how she uses her creative writing skills which engage the reader. I had the chance to work with her sometime in 2013, when she was editing my journalism project.

Apart from her, I fell in love with the works of Jhoanna Cruz, a Palanca awardee and a literature professor at the University of the Philippines-Mindanao. Jhoanna happened to be one of the panellists of a writing fellowship I attended in the summer of 2014, where she and other award-winning writers generously critiqued my literary projects.

Other writers that informed my writing include Milan Kundera (The Unbearable Lightness of Being), Laksmi Pamuntjak (The Question of Red), Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (Americanah), Adonis Durado (Not Everything that Falls Comes Down), Mikael de Lara Co (A Poem That Had Some Difficulty With The First Line).

If you want to become a writer and wish not to read, I say forget writing.

 

Writing Workshops Won’t Turn You into a Writer in One Day

Writing workshops nor your English lecturer won’t turn you into a good writer in a short span of time. And the same goes to, I’m sorry, language camps that promise you to become a fluent English speaker at the end of the programme. Enough of this craze. Improving your skill in writing is a lifetime process. Despite having been married to this profession for seven years, I still wake up everyday angry and ambitious. I have always been reluctant to give writing workshops because apart from feeling guilty of charging participants slash making money out of trainings, young aspiring writers should realise that they come to workshops only to gather inspiration to hold on to writing. Do not expect that you’ll soon be able to write a book after attending a workshop. My favourite writer took her more than a decade to publish her first book.

 

Write Everyday

Keep a diary and promise that you’ll fill it with words every day. Journals are a good exercise as it will help you get used to expressing yourself through the written language (in this case, the English language). In the beginning, writing each day could become a challenge. But hey, wake up. As the trite proverb says, practise makes perfect. Write down what goes in your mind. If a big idea suddenly appears, capture and find the words for it. Later, when you turn back the pages of your diary, you’ll be surprised of the things you were thinking about.

 

Grammar Matters

Once in 2012, a student quoted me as saying “grammar is dehumanising. It violates man’s freedom of expression.” First, I would like to clarify that when I said that, I was attempting to make the audience laugh. Seriously, grammar matters. Without it, our works would end up impossible to understand. (Also, I myself struggle with the English language grammar. And I thank my editors for saving me from humiliation!)

A lot of my students apologise for their terrible grammar before or after they submit their assignments to me. We all know how confusing the English language could get. But the constant asking for an apology does not make sense, most especially if they never take note of grammatical errors they’ve committed.

In Ayn Rand’s “The Art of Nonfiction: A Guide for Writers and Readers”, she said:

“Too many people today think: “I’m a creative genius, I’m above grammar.” But nobody who thinks or writes can be above grammar. It is like saying, I’m a creative genius, I’m above concepts” – which is the attitude of modern artists. If you are “above” grammar, you are “above” concepts; and if you are “above” concepts, you are “above” thought. The fact is that then you are not above, but far below, thought. Therefore, make a religion of grammar.

To the young Indonesians who wish to aspire to become writers in the English language, I wish you well. For those based in Malang, let’s meet! 🙂