Death of a teacher, an emergence of spirit
A day before leaving the mountainous Sidikalang for Jakarta, I visited his grave again. The wreaths of flowers had started to wither, but the flowers that we had planted seemed to be growing.
Despite heavy rain in the last few days, his name was still clearly written on the cross: Martua R. S. died on Aug. 26, 2005. He was a good teacher, who spent most of his career during the education unfriendly administration of Soeharto.
"I wanted to become a teacher because it was a respectable job when I was a teenager. Now it is getting worse and worse," he once complained.
But he kept working. Although he later became a local legislator, he was still a teacher by nature. Now he is just a name on the pile of earth. ... Is he just a name?
I raised my head to look to the horizon, looking for something to answer the questions that kept ringing in my mind.
I remembered the phone call from my sister: "Our father has died. Please come home..."
I was trembling upon hearing the sad news. I could not accept it. We had planned a very special family get together in a place near Lake Toba for Christmas. We also had several plans that were to materialize in the next few years. But now he has gone forever. I protested: Why God?. Why now? It should be at least 10 years on when we are ready and most of his grandchildren have grown up.
I felt I was thrown into an unfamiliar, uncharted zone. I was overcome with grief.
A waft of wind hit me, taking me back into the reality around me. I saw thousands of mountains on the horizon. They were all harmonized in a beautiful blue. Such beauty reminded me of a time I spent with him as a child in 1966.
He had taken me for the first time to a village near the subdistrict town of Parlilitan, our bonapasogit (the land of our ancestors). The small town could not be accessed by car. We could only take a bus as far as Sukarame, a small town about 25 kms from our hometown Sidikalang, the capital of Dairi regency. After that we had to walk, passing mostly forested areas, for three days and two nights to reach the village.
On the second night, we stayed in a small inn in Ulumerah, a historical village which was part of the Batak version of the Silk Road linking the highland areas around Lake Toba and Barus, an international seaport and trading town until early in the 20th century.
He said that the village was once ransacked by Dutch colonial troops in their hunt for Raja Sisingamangaraja XII, the national hero, who launched a guerrilla war with the support of his loyal troops from Toba, Pakpak people and a group of Acehnese soldiers from the forests around Parlilitan in the 1900s.
"Look son," he pointed to the long chain of mountains on the eastern horizon upon leaving the village in the morning. "You see the highest mountain over there. That's Semponan. Behind it lies your grandparents' home," he said.
I saw unprecedented beauty. It enlivened my spirit. It made me run ahead, wishing that I could arrive there as soon as possible to enjoy the beauty.
But upon arrival at the mountain in the afternoon it was raining heavily. The trail became wet and slippery. There were pools of water, patches of sharp stones along the path. I fell down several times on the muddy path.
He had to carry me on his back when we climbed a very steep and slippery trail. Holding onto grass on one side of the path, he climbed on tiptoe. "Hold me tight. We're going to climb this," he said.
But midway up the hill, a tuft of grass he held onto was uprooted as the earth was very soft. We fell down, hitting a tree below. It was very painful.
Years later, I still remember the experience. It had taught me something: Behind beauty there is always suffering.
I have experienced suffering before together with him. Now, his death brought another suffering that gripped me deep in my heart. But it taught me the lesson on the other side of the coin: Behind suffering there is always beauty.
Birds screeched at twilight while flying toward the setting sun. Their sound had always threatened that darkness was coming. But they did a good job of marking the transition from day to night, reminding people that they had to make preparations to go home.
The sun turned the chain of mountains on the western horizon an amber red, but it was slowly engulfed by the creeping darkness. I felt increasingly lonely. Then I heard a soft voice, as if coming with the wind.
"Son...don't let my death grip you in suffering. Look at the trees swaying in the wind over there. Their leaves are waving to you. They are the hands of the future, inviting you to the beauty in the future," the voice told me.
Now I knew that he was not only a name. He is now a teaching spirit, inspiring me. And with that, I discovered that his death was a point from which I can draw a new line to the future -- the future that I must pursue.
-- Benget Simbolon Tnb