A window to the sky

By Sheila Putri

Mrs. Broto was fuming with rage. Her voice shrilled with fury as she explained what she had heard to her closest neighbor, Mrs. Dody.

"I can't believe it! How could they do it ?" she spluttered the words into the phone as she paced up and down her spacious living room.

"And I can't understand why Pak RT hasn't done anything!" She went on, sucking deeply on her cigarette, blowing the smoke furiously into the quiet, cool air.

Soon, Mrs. Dody was able to calm her down, for she started to ease up, sat on the white sofa, and sighed.

"I'm going there now to see if I can change their mind", she finally said.

Hurrying to the bathroom, she took a quick shower and changed into a black dress. After giving instructions to her two servants, she marched out of the house in quick and angry steps.

She had never been to Pak Sampah's house, but she knew where it was. Right behind the market, one of those plywood and bamboo structures where bakso, jamu, satay and ketoprak sellers lived.

She knocked on the door several times. It was quiet. At this hour, most of the vendors had already left to hawk their staples. She tried again, and on hearing nothing she edged the door open.

It was damp and dark inside, but the cement floor was clean and even. There was a table near the window to the left, cluttered with plastic plates, a wick lamp and other assorted odds and ends. On the right was a bare bamboo bed. Maybe that's where Pak Sampah sleeps, she thought, shaking her head in disbelief.

Mrs. Broto was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and all her life, comfort was all she knew. Oh, she knew the world overflowed with the poor, miserable people, but she'd never come that close to any of them. Or saw anything that, to her, was even lower than poverty.

What she saw now came as quite a shock, because what little she knew about Pak Sampah was that he always smiled, was very gentle with the kids and never failed to keep the neighborhood clean. Somehow, it was hard for her to connect people like him with poverty or misery. How could one be that poor and look happy at the same time?

She was startled when a girl appeared in the doorway that led to the backroom. The girl stared at her questioningly, and asked, "Who are you looking for ?" The girl's hands rose and combed through her hair, smoothing the long, black, shining strands. She looked out of place in that plain shack, her beauty was far beyond the surrounds.

Is this really Pak Sampah's daughter? Mrs. Broto thought to herself, momentarily out of speech. She did not expect someone like this beauty to be born out of parents like Pak Sampah and his wife; an ordinary looking woman who helped her husband earn a living by running errands in the neighborhood.

But now, she realized something. No, Mbak Sampah was no ordinary looking woman. She thought again. Her beauty was buried beneath the lines of hardship that graced her face and wrinkled her hands.

"Is Mbak Sampah here?" asked Mrs. Broto.

"No, she's doing the laundry at Mrs. Bambang's," the girl answered.

Mrs. Broto was surprised at her calm look. She did not look like one who had been raped, she muttered to herself.

She thanked the mysterious girl and left.

On the way to Mrs. Bambang's house, Mrs. Broto kept wondering about how calm the girl had looked. She wondered how she would have dealt with the same situation. I would have been burning with rage if that happened to me, she thought. I would have liked to cut them into pieces.

Mbak Sampah was hanging the laundry on the clothes line when she arrived at Mrs. Bambang's.

"Is Bu Bambang home?" asked Mrs. Broto.

"Yes, Ndoro, she's reading," Mbak Sampah said, half bending her thin body, slightly raising her right hand towards the living room to indicate that Mrs. Bambang was inside.

Again confusion consumed her as she marched in. How could Mbak Sampah act as if nothing had happened? How could she not do anything ? At least she could have shown anger, concern, sorrow. But, no, her look was the same old look she always wore, quiet, even serene. Mrs. Broto shook her head.

"Kulo nuwun, Jeng," she greeted Mrs. Bambang, who had already risen from her easy chair upon hearing her talking to Mbak Sampah.

"Bu Broto! What a surprise," her host said, for it was not Mrs. Broto's habit to drop in on her. They lived in the same neighborhood, but were not really close friends because Mrs. Bambang was not a gossipy type of person, and was often left alone by the rest of the small community.

"Ah, well, it's about Mbak Sampah's daughter, Surti. Haven't you heard?"

"Yes. Sad, isn't it?"

"Shouldn't they report to the police?" Mrs. Broto asked, dropping sloppily into a rattan chair.

"I've thought about it. In fact, everybody in the neighborhood has told Pak Sampah to bring the case to the police. But they wouldn't listen," Mrs. Bambang said, slumping herself into a chair across from her guest.

"But why? They cannot let the scum go unpunished! Rape is a serious matter. It can ruin people's lives. The shame, the stigma, it stays," said Mrs. Broto, her voice thick with impatience.

"Maybe they're afraid, because the boys are rich university students, and one of them comes from a prominent family. His father is a high-ranking government official, you know," said Mrs. Bambang.

"It makes no difference. It would have ten years ago, but not today," Mrs. Broto insisted.

"I wouldn't know about that. Justice is such a queer thing," Mrs. Bambang said quietly, more to herself than to her confidante.

"At least they should try. Let's have a talk with Mbak Sampah," Mrs. Broto continued.

Bu Bambang called out to Mbak Sampah, who was listening from the next room. She hurried in, her tasks unfinished, and sat on the floor in front of the two women.

"Well, Mbak, I'm sorry about what happened to your daughter. How is she?" Mrs. Broto started.

"She's all right, Ndoro," Mbok Sampah said, fixing her gaze on the floor.

"What do you mean she's all right?" Mrs. Broto demanded.

Mbok Sampah did not give an answer but continued to stare at the clean, white tiles, contrasting sharply with Mrs. Broto's black dress.

"I've just talked with Bu Bambang. She told me you're not going to report to the police," Mrs. Broto continued.

"No, Ndoro."

"You should! Otherwise, they will think they can do anything in this country without being punished. Rape is a crime, and a rapist should go to jail!" Mrs. Broto reiterated in a heated voice.

"I know, Ndoro, but we are only small people."

"So what? Small people, big people, rich people, poor people. We are all equal before the law!"

"Yes, Ndoro," said Mbak Sampah, still in her quiet voice.

Exasperated, Mrs. Broto half shouted at her, "So, why don't you go to the police?"

"Surti does not want to. She said she doesn't want people to know."

"But everyone knows already!"

Mbak Sampah remained silent.

"Or do you want me to report on your behalf?"

"I don't know, Ndoro. I have to ask Surti."

Mrs. Bambang coughed softly, a hint that her guest should not press further.

Mrs. Broto left as angry as she had arrived. Angry at what she believed was Mbak Sampah's indifference.

Mbak Sampah resumed her work, hanging the clothes to dry in the sun.

When Mbak Sampah arrived home later that afternoon, she found Surti sitting on the bamboo bed, reading the Koran. Her clear, gentle voice filled the small hut, seeping through the cracks in the planks, flowing out of the tiny window, reaching out towards the blue, bright sky.

Mbak Sampah put the apples Mrs. Bambang had given her on the table, went out through the back door to the well, and began to wash herself for the afternoon prayer.

Surti's voice continued singing the holy verses the rest of that afternoon, until it was time for her to prepare dinner.

The three of them, for Pak Sampah had returned, sat on the bamboo bed, each holding a plastic plate, quietly eating their last meal for the day. After dinner, Surti washed the dishes while her mother took up her sewing. She was making a new dress for Surti. Somehow she thought it would help ease her pain. She knew despite's Surti's silence her daughter was suffering.

Pak Sampah went out to join the other men at Pak Soleh's house to watch a soccer game on TV.

Surti picked up her Koran, climbed onto the bamboo bed and started reciting her favorite verses. Her voice mingled with the noises from outside, the sound of children shouting at each other in a war game, mothers urging them to be careful not to hurt each other. From Pak Soleh's house came the voices of the men cheering their favorite team.

Surti continued to recite the Koran until well into the night, until all the TV sets in the neighborhood had been switched off, and only the quiet sound of the dark accompanied her.

It was after she had worn out her voice that Surti joined her mother. Mbak Sampah was not yet asleep, for she startled Surti when she said, "Bu Broto says we should report it to the police."

Surti said nothing, but kept staring at the twinkling stars through the small window at the foot of the bed.

Her mother did not say anything else, and they both fell into a deep silence until Mbak Sampah dozed off.

The tears started streaming down Surti's face. The stars looked blurry through her wet eyelashes. It had been three days since the rape, but she had more tears to shed. How she wished she had remained with her grandmother in the village and the terrible thing would not have happened. How she wished she had not been lured into the city, where dreams melt into reality. How she wished she had not insisted on taking the evening sewing classes and had stayed at home with her parents.

She was only 19, and she lived with the thought of spending the rest of her life in the village, tending the small farm her father had inherited from his parents. She wanted to change her life, not to fall into the family line of farming a meager plot for survival, as her two elder brothers had done. Worse, becoming like her mother, working as a servant.

She thought she could change her destiny, if she had the opportunity. She wanted to open a dressmaking business. She loved sewing, like her mother. But her dream did not melt into reality. Was it fate to suffer for such a simple dream?

She recalled her shock that evening, walking home from her sewing class, when the car screeched to a halt beside her. One of the students asked for directions. She felt shy, answering in a low voice, unaware her shyness only magnified her original, honest beauty, that these days it's rare to find in a big city like Jakarta. She had no inkling her very timidity aroused the four young students, who found her tempting.

She remembered the pain when the first of them violated her, while the others stood outside the car, laughing, cheering him on, urging him to "enjoy her". The noise from the car stereo heightened their sensations, and muted her initial cries for help.

She did not cry, not even when the last of them had finished, her body limp with pain and fear, humiliation and anger. No, she would not let them see her cry. She looked into their eyes the whole time, watching them move their bodies, listening to their moans. The whole time she silently prayed, reciting the verses she had known since she could read the Koran, until finally they left. Leaving her crushed, half-covered body on the side of a grassy field.

Reaching home, a few hundred meters from the field where they dumped her, was an ordeal. She was a long time in the bathroom, cleaning her body, washing her hair, all the time reciting verses from the Koran.

She remembered her mother's face when she told her about the rape. Her mother did not say anything but went straight to the well in the back of the house, came back in and prayed.

Her father only stared at his daughter when he arrived home, to hear his wife tell him the news.

"Be patient, Nduk. We are only small people. Small people cannot fight big people. Small people can only submit to fate," her father had told her.

She had seen the pain in his eyes, felt the hopelessness in his voice.

Surti wanted to shout. What had she done to suffer so? She had tried to be a good person, because she believed in the punishment of hell. All her young life she had tried to follow the teachings of her religion, to practice her faith.

Was this punishment for her vanity? For wanting to step out of the family line and live a different, better life?

Or, was it because she was poor and powerless ?

Oh, how she raged inside. Why, simply because they were poor people could do anything to them? Why weren't her parents rich and powerful? Why was she born into that wretched family?

Suddenly, she caught her breath. She looked at her mother, at her bony, worn out body. No, she wouldn't have changed her mother for anyone else. Not even after what had happened. Or her father, whose patience, submission, and dignity was his most precious possession. Yes, dignity. Poor though he was, he never degraded himself. Poverty had failed to corrupt him, as it had so many other humans.

"Allahu Akbar, God is Great," Surti whispered, softly, wiping the tears from her face.

How she wanted to see them brought to justice. But her father had warned her, "We won't even be able to cover the transportation expenses to and from the court house. And Pak Hansip told me you have to pay to win at court, whether or not you are right."

No, she would not report it to the police, Surti decided. It would be like fighting a lost battle. Nothing could restore her virginity, or wipe out her humiliation. The pain would stay. Not even killing them would change that. Her rage flared at the thought, but only fleetingly. Her father was right. Justice did not belong to people like them. She would let God decide what to do to those four, rich university students. They are beyond our reach, but not his, she thought.

She looked at her mother, at how peaceful she looked. She heard her father snoring in the other room. She sat up, hugged her knees and looked out the window.

How bright the stars were. They lit the sky into a hazy, brilliant blue. She raised her gaze, looked into the sky, beyond the bright stars and further still. Her small window seemed to have expanded into a huge screen, and all she saw was light.

Note

Pak: short for bapak, mister or father RT: an abbreviation for Rukun Tetangga, neighborhood community bakso: meatball jamu: traditional herbal drinks ketoprak: an Indonesian dish of white noodles mixed with fried soybean cake, beansprouts and served with peanut sauce mbok: Javanese address for women (of the lower class) bu: short for ibu, Mrs. or mother ndoro: Javanese address for people of nobility or higher social level kulo nuwun: Javanese, excuse me jeng: Javanese address for younger women nduk: Javanese address for young girls, usually of the lower class Hansip: security guard