Things to do when socially distancing

Well, I’ve been meaning to write down a list anyway even before my last post, either as a reflection in my digital journal, or also as a blog post. My therapist seems to agree that writing up journal has done me good, as I’ve also long suspected. Whenever I feel emotionally overwhelmed, my go-to act has always been jotting down some random stories, or just venting on my digital journal, because otherwise, my mind would just went wild with all my anxieties fueling my brain.

My current situation has been: Working from home for months now, at least since last year, I’ve been staying at home more often, and focusing on getting my anxiety level at an all-time low, wanting to spend more time for myself, whatever it is I want and need doing, work and e-learning included.

But either because of the panic attack that triggered me to stay home more often and spare more time for myself, I have basically been socially distancing even before this whole outbreak started. I still go out and meet up with friends, to catch up with them over a cup of coffee, of course, but all in a very slow paces.

What I usually tell people when asked is that I think I am getting a lot more introverted recently, and I reason that maybe it’s because I am getting older and so social interaction with too many people tire me more. But to very few close friends, I also posed the question of my panic attack triggered it. I spent more time asking myself if I want to get out and meet people to socialise these days, while at the same time, I am perfectly happy with just staying in, especially if I was in the mood to clean up. It always lifts my mood to tidy up my tiny 17 sqm apartment just a bit, fold up my futon, and then sit on my floor sofa, with a cup of Earl Grey on the floor next to the sofa and open up the book I am currently reading. Or if it’s office hours then finish whatever task I have on that day. Even just picturing the scene always makes me feel more content, thinking of how cozy it would feel for me.

I remember a friend asked me if I ever feel lonely because I have been spending so much time by myself (well, with my books too) at home. And I told her I have always ask myself this question too, oftentimes. And the fact is, I have felt loneliness sometime in the past 31 year of my life, of course, and what I usually do if I try to observe my own feeling is to compare my current emotion with a similar one I felt in the past and then make a self-evaluation or a diagnosis if it is the same feeling, which could mean I am feeling that way. That was how I guessed as much that I was feeling anxious when I started grad school and not depression, like what I used to feel back in college.So I have previously asked myself if I am, or ever, feeling lonely, spending so much time at home. And the truth is, I am not. When I was depressed back then, I felt miserable thinking how invisible I feel even among people, while at the same time wanting to shut down. But now, I take comfort in being invisible and just being able to do my own stuffs, knowing that no one would bother me because everyone else is also living their life and preoccupied with something I hope makes them happy too.

So all those long paragraphs of introduction preceding this one basically lays out the background of my current state of emotion, and personality, that I hope also helps explaining why now that everyone is basically recommended to self-isolate and socially distancing themselves, I felt it affects me little, at least in terms of my mental health. And since I have really tried to make my tiny 1 room apartment as comfy as possible for me, I found myself having more time to:

1. Read more books. I just bought like 3 more books, on top of 5 that I already bought earlier in Istanbul, and finally managed to finish Orhan Pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence sometime last week, and now I’m halfway through Michelle Obama’s Becoming. After this, however, I might not want to read anyone else’s autobiography anytime soon and would want to switch to the good-old fiction book.
   
2. Practice strumming my ukulele. Basically that also translates as disturbing my neighbors with my ukulele practices. I tried learning more songs the moment I found one that I want to learn so much, provided playing the chord isn’t too difficult. After endlessly hurting my fingers trying to play Carrie Underwood’s Love Wins and Don’t Forget to Remember Me, I think my strumming has gotten better.
   
3. Working. Considering the privilege I have to be able to still have a job and got paid in times like this, and even being able to do it from home, I should consider myself lucky to still be able to ask for more tasks to do instead of sitting at home feeling anxious of how I am going to pay next month’s rent. Fingers crossed that I will ever have to.
   
4. Online courses. This is definitely the time to do them. I remember when I was between job and I ended up enrolling for a free course on Coursera, a Basic Philosophy course from the University of Amsterdam. If I got the time back then, there’s no reason I cannot do more now. All I have to do is to get my hands off Moana (my ukulele) or move my ass from my comfy futon.
   
5. Binge-watch all those movies I’ve downloaded but never watched. I got addicted already to This Is Us and there’s no turning back. I am on the third episode of Herrens Veje because I have a celebrity crush on Lars Mikkelsen and I have a few more episodes to go. And then there’s a list of movies and series I’ve saved on my Netflix but never got to watch even though I promise myself I would finish watching Contagion sometime this month. The list just never ends…
   
6. Write more. I used to write plenty short stories back then, just for fun, and realised that I never really do it anymore. I can’t even think of any story right now. Back then even the most bizzare dream I have when I slept would wake me up. And despite the urge to go back to sleep, I know that as soon as I do, I would never remember the crazy story I had in the dream once I woke up the second time. So I would force myself to grab my phone, and typed down the story. Because of that, I remember I dreamt once being chased by a T-rex which came and destroyed my hometown, I remember I dreamt being chased by Death Eaters in a dark, empty building, who detected their prey when you breath near them so I was terrified to breath when I got trapped in the same room as them. I remember I dreamt living a double life where I had a husband, and I was living with his family. I remember all these because I forced myself to get up to simply type what the dreams were. Then of course I went back to sleep (because sleep is the best thing to do).
   
7. Stroll around in an empty, less popular garden to practice shooting motions, or just a random objects and practice finding the perfect composition. Afterwards, I could always just take my books out and just read it there in the garden. Or simply relax and enjoy the view while chatting with my friends. Or write them another series of postcards.
   
8. Go back sketching. I have been drawing ever since I can remember. One of my earliest recollection of me starting to draw something is on the wall of my very first home when I was in kindergarten. My mom and dad arrived home to find our home’s wall have basically been “decorated” by me, and on top of that, I did it with pen. I might remember it wrong, but I think the wall remained the same by the time we moved out of the house. These days, I almost never drawn anything anymore and my past sketches were mostly burned because I was too embarrassed to show anyone of my silly sketches from when I was a kid, but somehow I never really delete the ones I uploaded on this blog. Maybe someday I will, but I can see why now could also be a good time to pick up sketching again.

All these makes me feel like winding down more, and just… be in the moment and re-discover myself to find my own voice. Or maybe see the things I have so far missed for missing a very nice garden near my place.

Things I should stop taking for granted during the social distancing

Having been working for about 2 months from home exclusively, and seeing and reading stories from friends worldwide on social media, I realised that despite the virus outbreak, not every company/employer and employee have the luxury like me. It’s definitely one of the things I usually take for granted, being a very introverted person (and even more introverted in the past few years), I secretly realise how much of a relief and something to be grateful for that my bosses seem to never mind me working from home ever since I started working for them. Going to the office became a strange experience for me instead, knowing very little of my co-workers aside from the people I have exclusively worked with, and my bosses.
Happy as I am, the combination of my work flexibility and my introverted, shy character seem to be the perfect combination during the COVID-19 outbreak that keep me from going crazy spending day by day in my tiny 17 sqm Japanese-style apartment. I am not sure if this categorises as one of the “privileges” I am having, but here are some of it:

1. Remote working flexibility–as mentioned above, I have been exclusively working from home in the past few months, but I have long been doing it even before this outbreak started. Aside from keeping my anxiety at an all-time level, this also reduces the risk of me having a full-blown panic attack like one that I had last year, in which a few of my close friends know about. This is the foremost privilege I can list, considering many people I know still need to get out of the house, risk being in a crowd (and hence risking infections), to go to the office. Rush hour here in Tokyo has not seem to change drastically, and some people I know can’t even afford missing a day’s work even if they’re sick or afraid of being infected or infecting other.
2. Having internet connection provided from work and for working from home, without having to pay out of my own pocket. I know that this seems to be the rule of cribbage, and that if our employers want us to work from home then the question is: Shouldn’t they facilitated it for you in the first place? But having worked as a freelancer for about a year prior to moving to Tokyo, and reading a friend’s story on facebook how some people actually had to pay for their internet connection out of their own pocket despite having to do remote working, I decided to put this as one of my privileges. I remember that when I was freelancing as an English tutor back in Jakarta, I had to collect teaching materials and design lesson plans all by myself, which oftentimes require internet connection. My students’ age and background range diversely and so were the classes. And wanting to build a good reputation as a teacher, I would not like to rely solely on the materials that I already have offline and would also like to check for updates in terms of materials, or would like to vary my lessons, and part of it is also learning and discussing with fellow teachers online. Since I was living with my lovely grandmother back in Jakarta who doesn’t have nor use much of internet connection aside from her own smartphone, I either had to look for internet providers or stuck myself in various coffeeshop or any other places that have internet, and either method would require me to pay for those access with my own money, and when work is scarce, this is a luxury I did not always have, were it not for my friends’ generous assistance as well to let me use their internet when needed.
3. Easy access to clean water and hand sanitizer.
   
   Again, probably something I would usually take for granted, but I know that in comparison to my friends in other countries, when it comes to hygiene, I am grateful for the fact that living in a major city in Japan has its perks, even when it comes to something that seem to trivial. Despite not being able to find any hand sanitizer anywhere ever since the outbreak and panic-buying started, I know for sure that almost all public buildings here, which include office buildings, restaurants, and cafes, will all provide a huge bottle of hand sanitizers at the entrance, in addition to the ones they already have been providing in the toilets. And me and my friends have been taking advantage of this by using the alcohol hand sanitizers whenever we want to hang out and enter a restaurant/cafe.Also, earlier today, I came across a New York Times article about the situation in refugee camps on how they couldn’t even bathe themselves, let alone worrying about washing their hands. Response have been slow especially since the outbreak and the main concern is that once confirmed that someone in the camp have COVID-19, containing the disease would be difficult.
4. Being able to self-isolate and self-distancing. So following up what I mentioned earlier about refugees in camps, another thing I realise is a privilege is being able to self-isolate and self-distance from others, since in the camp, this might not be possible at all due to the limited space that cannot cater to the overwhelming amount of people in the camp. Being able to self-distance protects us from getting the infection and also infecting others more vulnerable than us, especially people with pre-existing conditions and the elderly. Were I in cramped spaces and did not have the option to move out, I probably couldn’t even be bothered thinking about these preventions, and this makes me realise how having the option to self-isolate itself is also a privilege I have over others.
5. (Updated on 2019/03/24) Another privilege I realise I have and should be considered as a privilege in times like this is: Time. Time to sleep. Time to rest. Time to even read my book. It came to me only a few days ago after watching a news clip of team of doctors and volunteers in the epicenter Italy. Many doctors and nurses are now facing more threats of infection and their lives are a lot more at risk due to overworking and being exposed to the hospital environment full of sick people. This is their job and their commitment, and something that I think is truly admirable. We have options to shut ourselves in and hope that we are safe, but these people do not. It’s their profession and their duty, and therefore this becomes another reason I think I should really be grateful for.
   (On another topic, a lot of hospitals now are short on supplies. I don’t know where to find the supplies they need, since they would need surgical masks and not the regular paper mask sold in drugstores for other people, and even here in Tokyo I can barely find any in drugstores nearby, but at the very least, we can consider helping financially, so please also consider to donate to help them get supplies. WHO and Oxfam are some of the NGOs I know that take donations to provide for medical supplies for health workers, but you might be more interested in donating to somewhere more local, e.g. hospitals near you, so I’m pretty sure plenty fundraising are set up on facebook or other social media too.)
6. Toilet’s bidets. The panic-buying and hysteria have caused scarcity of another stuff here: toilet paper. Luckily, as in Indonesia where we are taught to always wash our bum after business is done in the toilet, I have never been more grateful to the existence of bidets in most public toilets in Japan.
   
7. Being able to continue working and have a job in times like this. I have heard of a few people not being able to continue working and not even able to have any work at all because of lockdown, and being forced to self-isolate, and therefore lose the financial security they had. As uncertain as I am with my own future, but I can at least be rest assured that I would get paid and still be employed in the near future and still be able to resume work as if nothing changed (although this is in part because I have been doing remote working almost exclusively since last year).

So far those are the things I could think of as things that I should now not take for granted anymore. Will add more to the list if I find more stuffs.

Inside the train is still quite congested, though…

The Complex Istanbul

It’s been quite a while since I last wrote and posted in this blog, especially since I wrote more private stuffs as a personal (and definitely private) diary to alleviate my anxiety.

I was finishing packing, making sure that I wouldn’t get delayed too much and missed my bus to the airport while discussing many thought-provoking stuffs with my friend who has graciously hosted me for the whole trip and prevented me from starvation (just kidding), when she asked me what has been the most memorable thing, or what stood out the most from the trip, and what has been my impression so far.

I like to get lost in thought, and for the better or worse, I got lost and confused in my own thoughts and the dialogues in my head so many times, I admit, but these questions are definitely welcome, since it usually leads to a very reflective discussion.

As I got older and become a lot more introverted, I found myself liking to travel even slower (and I already prefer slow travel since I first began visiting neighboring countries all by myself). 1 week in Ho Chi Minh, 5 days in Singapore, 7 days in Gävle, and then Helsinki, and now 10 days in Istanbul. These aren’t even slow enough since it allows me to be the relaxed tourists to explore the surroundings I’m in, but never to really understand the culture and the society deeply enough, and the only things preventing me from staying longer have always been my budget and work (to an extent). But it’s slow enough to prevent me from place-hopping and rushing from one place to another before really knowing what the place (oftentimes are touristy spots) are about. It’s also slow enough to allow me to take breaks in-between places and write my postcards, my journal, read my books, and observe the surroundings. Except for the tiring, restless long flight, I am usually well-rested throughout the whole stay.

Back to the work questions. My impression of the city itself. I am well aware that my observations are those of the visitors and tourists—someone who stay for a while, but not long enough that I would claim to know the city well.

1. Similarities

One thing that got my attention right away is noticing how similar Istanbul is to Jakarta. It’s another metropolitan city, with malls as one of the destinations for fun and relaxation, hang out places, and basically everything. Malls after malls after malls after malls.

And then I heard the call to prayer and it threw me back right away to Indonesia.

The mixes of fashion—especially the women, since this is where any differences tend to stand out more: Some chose to don hijab, some even don a burka, some wear tights, skirt—it really is a combination of things.

Cars, cars, cars. For convenience, you do want to travel with cars. What I took comfort in, however, is the whole other options to walk and could still feel safe to walk despite the challenging terrain. Comparing it to Jakarta or Surabaya, I found more civilized driver who would wait for the pedestrian to walk (unlike Jakarta where you wave your magic hands and dare them to hit you because they wouldn’t—but please don’t try this), or the lack of motorbike drivers who would ride on the sidewalk in times of traffic. Traffic is much less crazy than Jakarta and sidewalk is still very pedestrian-friendly.

Traffic in Istanbul one evening

2. Landscapes and architectures

I’ve always wanted to visit Istanbul and I think to some extent I used to view the city with some exoticism, thinking of its beautiful mosques, and somehow my image of this got a bit mixed up with Morocco, which is also in the list of country I would love to pay a visit to. I am now ashamed of this ignorance I used to cling on to. I realised this, of course, and I would say that I am well-informed by now, but only to a certain extent. I also know that traveling also feels a lot better when there’s a certain familiarity to it–at least for me, or if I know better what I am going into. I want to know more about the city before stepping in, instead of simply stepping into the unknown. Some people prefer this, and I could see why there’s some joy in it, too, of course.

But then, for this mission to get to know Istanbul better, I started with purchasing two fictional books on Istanbul, and I went for Orhan Pamuk’s A Strangeness in My Mind, and The Museum of Innocence. I understand that the hype to his authorship and his works is somewhat mixed–some people love him and his works, some people don’t. Prior to this, I have only read his book Silent House. Afterwards, in the middle of reading it, a dear friend of mine, who’s also my photography mentor and my host, and currently living in Istanbul, also advised me to read Strolling in Istanbul as the perfect guide to the city. I ended up getting a soft copy of the book, but never eventually managed to read it prior to my trip. Even after the trip’s over, I am still trying to finish The Museum of Innocence.

Thankfully, I love the sentimental feel of A Strangeness in My Mind, and the historical background Pamuk would insert throughout the story, and I have mixed reception so far, halfway with the other book, but we’ll get to that one day.

Then after googling more about places to visit in Istanbul, I was captivated by its complex and rich history, where different cultures, civilisation, and religions seem to mix altogether in that one city. It appears initially to me as a bit of a mess, (then again, which country isn’t a mess?), but I come down to think about it as a beautiful mess. It leaves them with beautiful landscape to admire, and amazing architecture to visit, and grand history to reflect. I believe these are always the thing that shape one’s society, and I could see that reflected when I see such contrast between one area to another, despite being in the same city.

In Istanbul where you could look to the other side of the Bosphorus sea and pointed out that that’s Asia while sipping out your beer or maybe a glass of rakı (Turkish arrack) in Europe. The area I was staying at is this modernized apartment building with lines of malls adjunct to each other, and then I went and visit the old city wall and the beautiful Chora church, and old houses (sadly, some are dilapidated as well) where architectures from the 20’s remain intact. It gave me a glimpse, albeit just a bit of a glimpse, of the different demographics, and possibly the economical situation of the two different areas as well.

Houses rooftops across Fatih.

3. The animal and the smell

Another thing I noted about Istanbul is how much they love their animals. Stray cats and dogs are everywhere, but you can see that no harm is coming to them. Either people leave them alone, or they take care of them. One time I actually see this one lady walking around with her tiny cart containing a large bag that I suspect contains cat food. And she literally walked around the neighborhood visiting the stray cats and making sure they’re all taken care of and fed. Tokyo people took care of stray animals as well, but I’ve never seen anyone do that.

Seagulls, pigeons, and ravens are everywhere. So are their shits. They’re beautiful sights to behold, and perfect moving objects for my photography practices, but from time to time I mumbled my prayer that they wouldn’t shit on me or my camera while I was trying to also capture them in motion, flying above me.

Sea gulls flying over the Bosphorus

Locals love and feed them, and tourists also want to pet them. That’s probably why Istanbul has this mixture of smell. Of the sea, and the fishy smell of its marine life, of course, of cat and dog food and their shits, of the birds and their shits, too.

4. The people

In so many ways, Turkish people remind me of my own people, Indonesians. In a good way, they’re warm and generally nice. They seemed to love to make a conversation, although I’m unsure if that’s because I’m obviously not a local or because they just love to do so. In the more touristy place, they always love to ask where I am from, before later on trying to probably impress me by saying thank you either in Indonesian or in Japanese.

At the same time, knowing full well I’m a tourist, there seem to be an endless lines of people (and by people, mostly men), trying to talk to me. My friend warned me nice and early that despite the good intention I also need to be wary of people trying to scam me and then got into the tourist trap. I came from a culture that also has people doing this to tourists, so it was not at all a surprise to me, of course.

While I appreciate the nice greetings they seem to really like doing, I also realised that they might simply want to promote their shops/restaurants, and if I stop by each time someone talked to me, I may not even managed to go anywhere else.

And then there’s the stares, like seriously people stare at you. I was told that they do this to everyone and not necessarily because I’m a tourist, though I suspect as well me not looking at all like a local also has a part in it. Regardless, it took me a couple of days to get used to it and just ignore the awkwardness I felt, having acclimated already to the Japanese culture of not staring at other people since it would be rude and embarrassing.

But I also found some general kindness, people of genuine curiosity and just sweetness, things that I have come to really value and remember most whenever I met a random encounter of kindness.

4. The power of smile

This one part is not going to be a nice bit, and while I am afraid some people might find it offensive, it is still a part of my reflection to the trip itself.

So, men stares. And Turkish men can be really charming, in my opinion. The way they flirt is different from some other cultures I’ve encountered, and I could see how in other cultures and context, can be viewed as downright aggressive.

Yet, what I found to be a bit disturbing is when I found that merely smiling could be possibly seen as an invitation, for a romance talk, allure to sex, and unsolicited message on social media. One of this happened only with a smile. Not even a chat, but a smile.

While I consider it polite to simply smile as a nice gesture to one another, and who knows, a smile could go a long way and make others feel welcome (I do feel less inclined sometimes to enter a restaurant when traveling when everyone’s looking with their resting bitch faces), but when that could also be misinterpreted as a welcoming invite to unwelcome attention, it could instead make one feel less inclined to smile to just anyone except for the people they already know, so at some point in my trip I just tried to smile when I only had to.

***

Yet, in spite of the bad, and most definitely, because of the good as well, I consider it to be a good trip and a good experience. I do not believe that by now I have understood Istanbul well, and I don’t think I would ever claim so, and certainly 10 days would not reflect that at all, so visiting again is always something I would be looking forward to, especially when I believe that there are still plenty of room to explore. While visiting ancient fortresses are always nice, and plenty more modern art museums were left unexplored yet, but I wold also love to come and sit down in one of lovely bookshops I found in Beyoğlu, for example, or just getting more midye dolma somewhere around Şişli.

Until next time, Istanbul. Until next time.

Taking Compliments

Although I admit I am mostly awkward with people I don’t know well, and especially in environments I haven’t warmed up to.

Random Sketch from Japan #3

Yesterday marks the day the first time Tokyo was hit by a heavy snow since 2014… And by god I swear it was cold. As beautiful as it looks, it definitely doesn’t feel as pretty with my legs freezing and I could hardly feel my fingers even with my gloves on…

I guess I am just not made for the cold, because when everyone else get excited upon having their first snow, my reaction upon seeing the weather forecast yesterday morning instead was…, “Well, fuck.”

May tomorrow be magically warmer than today (I tend to doubt it, of course…)

Random Sketch from Japan #2

Made with Paper / fiftythree.com

Like, I’ve always had anxieties for as long as I could remember, but I thought as I grew up, they are finally gone forever. …or so I thought. Grad school happen and anxieties are ushered back in. Basically every day of my student life, these are. I bet Charlie Brown is my true kindred spirit in this.

P.S. Let’s be noted that it simply says “much better scores than expected,” but not “good scores” (yep, I’ve learned to lower my expectations to worse than the worst outcome possible…)

Random Sketch from Japan #1

4 years of undergrad, 4+ years of full-time work (and being in front of classes and interpreting in panel discussions in front of hundreds of people), this is still happening.

…yes, I went all the way to Japan to become like this…

What’s in a Name? – Night Ramblings

Sugiharti Halim: What’s in a name?

An interesting video, looking back at another long-put discrimination against Chinese Indonesians in terms of names.

Back then, in the New Order, a decree was made to get Chinese Indonesians to choose their allegiance, whether they are going to stay true to their Chinese inheritance and deny Indonesian citizenship or instead become the latter, forcing them then to adopt Indonesian names.

The video then contemplates on its implications on the children of those first generations who experienced name-changing policy and decided to get Indonesian names, as well as naming their offsprings with Indonesian names later on.

My family from my mother’s side is a long-line of generations of Chinese Indonesians. Though unfamiliar with its history, I know enough that my grandfather underwent this period. I also know that my maternal family line is of Hokkien Chinese and that my granddad’s Chinese name was The Oen Siang (although, do pardon me, I might misspelled the last name). He later adapted the Indonesian name Untung Gunawan. My grandmother herself is a Klang Chinese who was adopted into a Hokkien family, and her Chinese name was then changed from Siek Ngo San to Kwee Kien Nio. Later she adopted the Indonesian name Haryani Tedja Mertadiwangsa. From my mom’s faint recollection of her childhood, she did acknowledged that 6 of her elder siblings still obtain Chinese names from my grandparents and that my mom did, too, although her name was not recorded officially and later unused and forsaken. All that remains is a distant, meaningless name of The Poe Liang. Afterwards, none of the grandchildren I know have Chinese names. Now, only my cousins’ children would get Chinese names if they got married to someone of Chinese inheritance as well. I know for sure two of my nephews have Chinese names and their parents use the names frequently at home.

No doubt, this is one of the domino effect of the 1965 coup and one of the worst massacre in the Indonesian history.

As a child of multicultural identities, I spent quite some time in my teens struggling with my own cultural inheritance and identity. My parents’ separation and, later, divorce, did little to help. Not that I think had it not happen in the first place it would be easier for me to obtain a sense of ethnic identity.

My paternal grandfather himself is a Balinese while my grandmother is a Javanese, making me, technically, a Balinese as well since the line passed down from my father.

Growing up mostly in Jakarta, initially, I didn’t even realise that this struggle of identity exists in the first place. I spent most of my childhood in my paternal grandma’s home in Jakarta, where, fortunately, I was either too ignorant or simply never experienced any discrimination being partially Chinese Indonesians. The fact that I don’t at all look Chinese physically did crossed my mind, too, but at the same time, I barely understood the word “discrimination” and “racism” in the first place back then. Although my grandma’s household carefully shows a slight, faint gap of the hierarchical structure of race (e.g. Javanese vs Chinese Indonesians), religion (e.g. Islam vs Christian), and even of master and servant, they never showed any discriminative attitudes toward people whom I’ve met who are different. I spent my childhood in an elementary school, where most problems revolved around my flunked grades and ranking, and trivial friendship problems. I never noticed any of my friends whose races are different, and I distinctly remember getting confused over a friend’s statement who said that she didn’t want to be friend with someone because this someone is of different religion. Seriously, that didn’t make any sense to me.

Then, back at my grandma’s home, I’d spent the rest of my day playing too much with the babu‘s kids who are of my age. I remember playing badminton too much, losing way too many shuttlecock somewhere in the field, and buying too many rackets and shuttlecocks replacements. I didn’t even understand why my mom wouldn’t let me transfer to the babu‘s son’s school which is much, much nearer to my grandma’s house (which means I wouldn’t have to wake up very early anymore every morning, only to get to the school late every single day). I didn’t realise that she (and maybe my grandma, too) minded because the school she sent me to is a more expensive, probably better, private school. No one made me feel different there. In fact, now that I think about it, they perhaps pitied me and spoiled me too much because I’m a broken-home little brat.

Then in middle school, I started to experience identity crisis. In my small hometown, there is a stark difference between being a Chinese or a Javanese , a Christian or an Islam, and a master or a servant. Oh, but actually, I need to correct on the religion part. I didn’t see or experience any religious discrimination, really. The friends I’ve met and known are tolerant and very polite, so I should cross that one out. But it became clearer to me, first of all, what it meant to be someone of a more well-off family. We’re not filthy rich, no (some family members might), but my mom and I were definitely not rich enough to own anything fancy. But our family is rich enough to pay for servants.

My cousins’ first reaction upon seeing me kissing a little babu‘s daughter on the cheek was terrified. In a surprised tone (and not in a good way), I was asked why the hell I would kiss a servant’s daughter. In return, I was too surprised of the question itself to give any answer. That was the first time I understood that as one of the “masters,” I was not supposed to kiss them.

Another thing that was clearer to me is the gap existence of those of different race. Amongst my Chinese-looking cousins, strangers would think that I am their babu. When my mom knew, she was furious. That’s when I realised that having a different skin tone could account to something. People would be genuinely surprised when they found out that the Chinese-looking person next to me is my kin. That they are really related to me. And the fact that apparently I wasn’t adopted.

Although ignorant at first, slowly, I started to feel inferior of my skin colour. I hated myself because I was dark-skinned. I hated God because there are people of mixed inheritance, but their inherited genes allowed them to inherit their one of their parents’ narrow eyes or fair skin. I used to hate having wide eyes. And some boy-classmates’ mockery of how big, electrified-looking my eyes are did little to elevate my moods. I thought the way people discriminate me was because I didn’t look Chinese enough. Or perhaps my stupid inferiority made the discrimination exist where there were actually none. And I blamed my not-looking-Chinese-enough for it. I walked home from school one day, taking a shortcut through an empty alley when a guy riding a motorbike came from behind and stopped to squeeze my right boob so hard and then left me stunned and speechless. As I continued walking, an old guy apparently stood nearby and saw everything and said that he didn’t do anything initially because he thought the guy was my friend. Later, I felt very ashamed and humiliated, and again, I blamed my look which is not Chinese enough. I thought if I looked more Chinese, if I had fairer skin and/narrower eyes, if I didn’t look like a babu, this would never happen to me. He wouldn’t dare to touch me had I look like a Chinese nonik.

Only when I entered university and met a lot more people of different cultural background did I realise that not all Chinese Indonesians are discriminative towards those of non-Chinese. It took me quite some time until I finally stopped hinting to strangers that I’m actually partially Chinese because I was afraid of discriminations. Yet what happened next was the complete opposite. As soon as I found out that I could claim my Balinese inheritance (at least until I probably marry a guy of non-Balinese inheritance), I started telling people that I am a Balinese, who was born and raised in Java. It was easier, though, really. No more shocked responses and disbelief statements, although I still did smiled when the old Chinese lady who opens a warung with a tasty Chinese food called me “nonik” instead of “dek.” Only recently did I finally admit to people who ask that I’m also partially Chinese. Back then, I would deny it until my co-worker who found out then told those who asked that I’m actually partially a Chinese Indonesian, too.

I was really surprised upon reading an article by Vltchek who tells a story of a Chinese Indonesian who experienced sexual harassment and later felt ashamed and humiliated, then instead blamed her Chinese inheritance. I thought that those stuffs only happened because you don’t look Chinese enough. That was a significant eye-opener for me, because that’s when I started to explore further of the horrible, discriminative history of the government, from the colonial era up to now, against the Chinese people. How people could hate the Chinese because back then people assimilate Chinese with communism. But even that is only one of thousands of reasons to discriminate Chinese, and some of them are ridiculously fabricated. And the very sad thing is, how easily some people in the country could still be manipulated by racism.

When I watched a family’s story in the documentary film “40 Years of Silence,” I began to understand even better why Chinese Indonesians could be very discriminative to non-Chinese. I wouldn’t blame them, really. Not to mention the racist comments uttered to Ahok who’d become the first Chinese-Indonesian governor of Jakarta, it’s just appalling how shallow the comments uttered and that’s maybe an understatement. But then again, I think now more and more people are becoming more combative against racism, and care less about it. I’d like to believe that more people are beginning to value people more on their personal qualities and performance and characters, and not on their race or religions. Also that those with the racist comments are decreasing in number and who knows, they might be paid to utter such comments.

As I was too spoiled and inferior about myself, not to mention ignorant, I was too focused on my own identity crisis, never thought that the similar things, if not worse, could also happen to others (aside from the calamities of the 1998 riots), but now that I know more about it, I wonder whether all these are simply trivial matters to be shrugged off, compared to those who might have experienced much, much worse discriminations growing up.

P.S. I’m thinking of writing another post someday when I found out more of maternal family’s genealogy because after talking to my mom after writing this, my mom just mentioned another family history, saying the the Javanese inheritance in the family is actually passed down from my granddad-____-‘ It’s just getting more complicated.

I’m a Javanese-born Balinese, and about 25% Chinese-Indonesian

I had only had a few hours of sleep when I felt someone’s holding my hand tightly. Half-dreaming and half-awake, I saw in front of me the beautiful aging face of my grandmother. She was looking at me, smiling, and asking me questions in language and words I couldn’t comprehend. Partially because I was still trying to be fully awake, and partially because basically, it’s hard to understand what my grandmother is saying most of the time ever since she’s stricken with dementia.

Most of the time, she’d mumble something in Dutch, a language which, sadly, none of her offsprings understand. We would simply reply back in Indonesian whereas she would reply back in Dutch. It’s like she’s only speaking Dutch and that we’re from two very different worlds.

At other times, her mind would wander back to her younger days. She would call me “mother,” or she would call my mom so. And then she’d spotted her oldest son and perceived him as someone else, someone from her past, who are mostly dead and gone now.

All these time, I’ve been writing continuously about my paternal grandfather and his intriguing, but dark past. But recently, I’ve been hanging out with my mom and her family, and watching how my mom taking care of my demented grandma makes me learn, even just a little bit, of my mom’s past and my grandma herself.

Apparently, my grandmother was a refugee in the Japanese-colonized Dutch East Indies when she met my grandfather. She was under my grandfather’s protection, to be precise, living in his house. My grandfather himself was a wealthy Chinese widow, his first wife deceased, leaving him with his children. Despite the age gap, my grandmother being only a few years older from his firstborn, my grandpa and grandma got married anyway.

Whenever I visit my grandpa’s house at Purworejo, Klampok, Central Java (now occupied by one of my cousins and his family), I never ceased feeling awe and spooked at the same time. The house is the very depiction of an old Chinese family house (I’d say it’s resembling the typical Balinese house) where there are small houses inside those wide acres of land. There were remnants of the past, where apparently my grandfather grew and sold some fruits and vegetables to earn the household incomes back then.

One time, when I was visiting one of my aunt’s house, she and my mom gathered in the dining room, talking about their past. Despite being wealthy, my grandpa never stopped pushing my grandma to earn her own income, so she had to work on her own, selling things to the traditional market (I forgot what she sold exactly) to earn extra money. My grandma herself was quite proud, never begging for money from my grandpa. She worked hard, even when the family when bankrupt after my mom was born. I always heard that my mom was born during the most difficult times. My grandma’s oldest son had to left his study in the university to help the family with the newspaper agency business. And even then life was still difficult. They used to eat rice with salt, or soy sauce, and having a salted duck egg for a meal was already considered a luxury for them, and even then they still had to divide one egg into four to be divided for my grandma’s 8 children.

But life is just like a wheel. Sometimes you’re up, and sometimes you’re down, right? And despite the hard and struggling past, most of my grandma’s children are now successful, and my grandma got the chance to enjoy the wealth before she’s stricken with dementia.

Now my mom is taking care of my grandma, who, consumed with dementia, is still pretty robust and strong physically, but whose mind is already eaten away and turned into that of little kid. She becomes very dependent of everyone, especially my mother, and perhaps my mom’s the only person who understand her best.

The last time I came home, I already expected the same thing I’m becoming used to expect of my grandmother these past few years: That she wouldn’t have the slightest idea of who I am, that she’d mistake me as an outsider since I’m her only grandchild with dark skin and doesn’t have the slightest Chinese look, that she’d sleep most of the time, that she’d keep asking the same question over and over, and that she’d mumble either unclearly or in a language I don’t understand (Dutch). Funnily, since she’s Chinese, it would only be logic if she also mumbles in Chinese as well, but I’ve never heard her say anything in Chinese. It’s usually Dutch, or Indonesian, or Javanese.

In the old days, when she was younger, I remember my grandma talking to me gently, kindly, and tried to protect me from anyone or anything who tried to harm me. I remember her wearing kebaya, the Javanese traditional dress, and chewing betel, or sometimes smoking (yes, she smoked). Whenever any of her children or grandchildren was tired, she’d offer to massage us.

I’d chuckled and smiled every time one of those memories crossed my mind, and I can’t help but miss those days. I wish I could turn back the time, and saw another glimpse of my younger grandmother, because those images of her has started to be replaced with her current image: fragile and demented.

There would be stories which, luckily, my mom could laugh at instead of feeling stressed with, of my grandmother. Because of her demented mind, the first days and months she stayed with my mom, she could barely sleep, and that caused my mom to be lacking of sleep just as well. Or sometimes, my mom would wake up, finding my grandmother’s already gone. We’re very fortunate that the neighbors already knew us pretty well, so one of them would find her and guided her home. Once, there was even a pedicab driver who found her astray. All she said at that time–and even now, actually–is that she wanted to go home. All she remembered is her home back then in her childhood and teenage years.

One of the few memories I got of my grandmother that still touched me until now is when her mind was starting to become demented, she’d told me not to go out for too long, or that she’d told me to come up early, because to her, every second could suddenly passed to 6 PM, where it would be dark already, and there would be very few lights on in the streets. One day, she gave me Rp 500,- for my pocket money. At that time, all Rp 500,- could buy me was one cheap candy. I felt choked since I felt like scolding her to correct her errors, yet at the same time tears were already filling my eyes. I managed not to cry in front of her.

My family’s history is really complicated, both from my maternal and paternal sides. But then again, whose family history isn’t complicated, eh? I used to hear that my maternal ancestors were somehow connected distantly to the Sultanate of Yogyakarta, but none of us have any exact idea how it could be anymore. A part that I remembered is that one of our ancestors was actually a child, or perhaps a relative of Hamengkubuwono, who got adopted by one of his Chinese close friends who were childless, and then moved back to China. After he grew up, he returned to Indonesia as a Chinese, and married another Chinese, and then produced more Chinese offsprings (or Chinese Indonesian). No one can really confirm now whether the story is any true or not, and I merely took it a a kind of tale from a distant past, not really caring whether it’s true or not. I could only trace my maternal family line as far as my grandfather, and even I never got to know him. Because of the age gap (about 20 years) between my grandma and grandpa, he was old enough to be my mom’s grandfather when my mom, his last child, was born. My mom was 2 when he passed away. All my mom remembered was that once, he beat up my mom because she was being naughty. But many of her brothers and sisters would remind her how my grandpa used to carry my infant mom on his shoulder whenever he walked around his massive garden where he would sell the fruits and vegetables to feed the family. I remember seeing his photo only once, and all that’s left in my head is merely a vague picture of an old Chinese man. Whenever I heard my mom and her sisters and brothers talked about their past, I kept wondering what kind of person my maternal grandfather was.

Ever since knowing that I can rightly claim my Balinese heritage through my paternal grandfather and my father, I never tell people that I’m Chinese. Partially perhaps because I don’t look like one, and perhaps because I always thought that I cannot tell people so because I’m not 100% Chinese since I don’t look like one, and I don’t speak like one, nor do we still embrace the Chinese culture. But it’s there, and I can’t just shrug it off no matter how disconnected I sometimes feel with it. It’s a part of my family, and a part of my mom that she still holds dear. I suppose now I could say that I’m a Javanese-born Balinese, and about 25% Chinese-Indonesian, despite not speaking any Balinese or Chinese. Well, basically, I’m an Indonesian.

Confession of a Bookworm (no, scratch that) Bookaholic