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A Shred From The Diary of Indonesia

A Shred From The Diary of Indonesia

By Emha Ainun Nadjib

See the performances of plays in my country
called Bloodbath in Jember
Attack the Country of the White Ghost in Solo
Klaten, Semarang, Surabaya and Medan
The Terrorising of the Neighbourhood Security Post in Bandung
Woyla.
Ah, remember in the past
the performance of the folk drama
that was called Jihad Command.
Remember Malari.
Remember the hundreds of plays performed
whose scripts we did not known
and our naked eyes
so easily fooled and hoodwinked.
Ah, complete dramas
not played on a stage
but rather played out over the heads
of the sea of onlookers.
Blood flowing, flowers of death.
The foul stench of the saliva of the cunning directors
who hide in the hearts of the people.
Dramas of a civilisation that plays with lives
toys with humanity
tells dirty jokes to God.
We are very simple people and do not know
our Minds are steered
bit through the nose and doused in perfume
Backsides prodded and we bellow
meaninglessly
We who are too simple and forgiving
chattering amongst ourselves
like small children running around with crackers
then falling sound asleep
after being fed sponge cake and chewing gum.
Ah, who owns this land.
Who owns the forests being cut down.
Tin ore and timber that are officially smuggled
Who owns the mines
decisions about the future
Who owns nature’s wealth
now being wasted completely
Who owns the changes
in the interests of official decisions
We ourselves here
who owns us.
Have we ever owned even a small amount
more than just being owned, and owned.
Have we ever determined even a small amount
more than just being determined, and determined.

Yogya, 13 March 1982


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