Wiji Thukul

I've been reading Menagerie 5, an issue of an anthology series of Indonesian fiction, poetry, and essays. The short stories are okay but the highlight is a section of poems by Wiji Thukul, accompanied by a short biographical essay. Thukul was born in 1963 and lived in Solo in central Java. His poems strongly criticised the Indonesian government and social conditions on Indonesia. He has been missing since 1998, when he took part the anti-Suharto demonstrations occurring then, probably eliminated by government forces.

Here's a sample of his work. The translation is by Richard Curtis.

An odd puzzle

that night we got together and talked

from our mouths no grand issues emerged;

we talked about our hopes,

things simple and understandable

one person had been hoping for a long time

to add on a kitchen to the place he rents

which reminded others

they didn't own a saucepan, kerosene stove,

drinking glasses, or frying pan,

which made them remember

they had once wanted to buy such things

only to see their wishes soon buried

beneath weariness

and wages that so quickly changed

into toothpaste, shampoo, rent

and unpaid bills at the food stall

after that many of us found it difficult

to enjoy the warm tea that had been served

because we were still busy thinking

about where to rest our heads and where to hang our clothes

another person mentioned that for ages he had wanted

a bathroom of his own

from which topic the discussion jumped to cement and wall paint,

prices for which never seem to fall

we also talked about the election campaign,

the one just passed

and of the three parties that competed,

we concluded had no connection with us: workers

whose only use for them is our votes,

to be exploited for their own interests

we laughed because we realised

that for many years we had been deceived

and treated like buffalo

but in the end we asked

why it's so difficult for a worker to buy a can of paint,

even after working no less that eight hours a day,

and why it's so difficult for them

to send their children to school

when each day they produce

tons and tons of goods

and then one among the group stood up,

looked around and asked:

"are there any things you use

that are not made by workers?"

a question that made us observe

the many things around us: neon lights, televisions, radios, clothes, books...

since that time I've always felt

we are faced with an odd puzzle, one that arises whenever we talk

about saucepans, kerosene stoves,

drinking glasses, or frying pans

and also at times we count our wages

which so quickly change

to tooth paste, shampoo, rent

and unpaid bills at the food stall

I'm always surprised and ask myself

what kind of power it is that can so easily absorb

our energy and the fruits of our labour.

I demand change

one hundred latrines

mean more to me

than your big mouth

it's not important

who's going to win

we're fed up

with a life like this:

a hassle going to the toilet

a roof that leaks when it rains.

we don't need chants

magic spells

or promises;

a sack of rice

from the masters' food stores

won't wipe out poverty;

sympathy and second-hand clothing donations

are of no help;

we no longer believe in that.

political parties

and the language of their trade

floating so far over our heads

and our problems

will not fill our stomachs.

shut down this silly comedy,

we want to sleep soundly

with our debts paid off,

truly free,

not under pressure.

we're fed up

with a life like this

or to say it more explicitly:

I demand change!

Don't forget, my love

don't forget, my love

when the moon is full

and we are taking a stroll

those people sleeping outside, in front of the house

and on the edge of the drainage canal,

are our neighbours, my love

don't forget, my love

when it's five o'clock in the morning,

the throngs of female workers

with bleary eyes

who walk alongside you

are your friends, my love

don't forget, my love

to whomever should ask who your in-law is

to answer: a pedicab driver

for he is your father, my love

don't forget, my love

to whomever should ask

to tell them your name

and do not be ashamed

for that is your name, my love