Echoes of torment

By E. J. Ardaneshwari

There she sits, staring blankly at something which is not there. She is blind to this world.

I search her sallow, stress-lined face for a touch of recognition but there is nothing except a weary look of defeat. She looks out the window; there's nothing to see except a gray, pockmarked wall just a meter away.

Her fear-inspired, protective wall is facing this other structure and gives rise to an echo of fear and anger deep in my heart. Where is that happy-go-lucky, mischievous and fresh-faced little sister of mine? What has happened to her joyful laughter, her teasing, the endless questions?

Her spirit has gone. She's a memory in my troubled mind, as she looks at that wall without seeing, speaks without saying, lives without living.

Aug. 1, 1995 was one of the happiest day's of my life. My family, mom and dad, my two sisters and I had one of our rare days.

We just walked down the street, a happy, rollicking group, laughing and talking as we moved from one food vendor to the next, tasting the local delicacies of Jakarta, our hometown and birthplace.

We tried many of the various savory meats, spicy noodles and stuffed tofu, my sisters boisterously pestering me, pulling me this way and that, as we moved down the street.

"Try this, sister. Try that. They don't have this in America. Last chance, sister, before you die of starvation." Then, they would double over with laughter, tears of happiness pouring down my own face as I laughed with them. Mom pretended to be angry and hush us, but that made us laugh even harder. Mom smiled in resignation.

Even my dad would start to laugh, which was something he rarely did. He was a serious man, but today, even he recognized that was this was a special family time.

He had worked hard, day and night and his firstborn was going to America to study electrical engineering. My small family reveled in each other's company, enjoying the good food and a feeling of profound togetherness.

After returning to our ramshackle home behind my dad's shop, we sat together and listened to dad's tales of his youth in Jakarta. He was born in this city in 1950, the firstborn of seven brothers and sisters.

He didn't finish elementary school because his parents needed his help in selling fruit and vegetables. He slowly proved himself to be a hard worker.

After marrying mom in 1976, he opened a small electronics shop. When dad told us about his wedding day, my sisters, Lia and Tri, started to giggle.

"Dad, did you go out to movies with mom?" they teasingly asked him. "Did you kiss her?" asked Tri, her face turning red before she started giggling again with Lia.

"Oh, hush now, you silly girls," said mom with a smile on her face. Born and raised in the Central Java town of Surakarta, mom was a kind and quiet woman.

At the age of 15, she moved to Jakarta to help out at her aunt's flower shop. She told us that she became a quiet person after spending a lot of time selling flowers at cemeteries.

Dad continued his story. He repeatedly stopped to answer questions and laughed at the antics of his two comical teenage daughters. Our home was a place of laughter and deep affection. I could feel the love of our family in that simple, quiet room. It was to be our last night together.

On Aug. 2, 1995 I left for America, full of hope for my future and that of my family.

However, my hope was shattered by a barrage of frantic international phone calls and panic ridden e-mails from friends and neighbors in Jakarta to my one room apartment in Philadelphia.

My world turned upside down on May 13, 1998. I arrived in Jakarta three days after the hysteria started only to discover deaths and untold suffering among the people. The district where my family live looked like a war zone.

Dad's small electronics shop was totally gutted. Everything was burned beyond recognition, including my dad. My strong, stately mother, who considered no task too menial, walked bent over, limping, lips moving soundlessly and eyes darting back and forth fearfully.

Tri, my sister, also died in the fire. Neighbors cautiously told me that "wild animals" with no trace of humanity, pawed at her, stripped her, and then threw her into the fire as she screamed and cried for her father.

"You want him, go get him," they snarled, and threw her into the flames laughing hysterically at her shrieks of terror and pain.

Mom, who was spared, could only tell me scraps of what had happened before collapsing into heartbreaking sobs. I did not ask her any questions. Lia, my youngest sister, continued to stare out of the window, unwilling to face the dawning reality.

Much later, before I left for work each morning, I spoke to her and mom about what had happened. Lia continued to live in her own world, oblivious to everything around her.

Mom murmured pitifully while constantly checking the room for imaginary enemies. When I affectionately touched Lia's hand, she flinched and jerked with a cry of fright. Mom was the only one who could touch her.

No one knew what had happened to my youngest sister, or at least that's what my neighbors said. From what I had gathered, I understood that a crowd of men dragged Lia into an alley after stripping my mother naked and then beating her senseless.

Neighbors said they weren't able to see anything, but they did hear Lia's piercing screams of fear and pain above the raucous laughter and shouts of the men.

Subsequently, they found her naked, unconscious and blood- soaked. I knew what had happened. Mom and Lia knew too. But we didn't say a word to each other. What to say? No words could ever change the harsh reality of that horrific day.

I'll never be able to complete my studies in the United States. I'm resigned to that. One of my neighbors graciously offered me a job as an errand boy in his small shop.

He said I could work my way up and possibly open up my dad's old shop again. One day, when I finished working at my neighbor's shop, I went to my dad's gutted shop and carefully sifted through the ruins for anything worth saving or selling. I couldn't help but wonder if the ash I sifted through was mixed with that of my father and sister.

But I sifted and cleaned it in the hope that some day I would be able to reopen the shop and rebuild dad's business. I thought about getting professional help for mom and my sister. I yearned for a semblance of normality, of the family happiness and love we once shared.

One evening a few months later, I sat down next to my mother and softly said to her, "Mom, today is Lia's 16th birthday. Let's celebrate it." I immediately regretted my words as my mom's frightened eyes darted to the doors and barred windows, her mouth moving wordlessly.

"Oh, no," she whispered hoarsely. "You don't know because you're still clean. It's unsafe." She began to sob, her frail, broken body heaving in fear of unknown horrors. I held her. I cried, my soul in torment.

"Mom," I whispered, "only you, Lia and me. Nobody else. Just us."

"Yes, just us," she muttered. "Nobody else."

It's been more than a year now, but rage still frequently blinds me. There's so much talk and writing about reform. How does one reform the heart of humankind? What's the formula?

Some buy weapons, however that won't change a thing except, maybe, to cause more violence. Others set up or join political parties, but history has proven that politicians rarely keep their promises and political machines serve only feed themselves with increasingly greater power over the people they supposedly represent.

Politics, politicians and political parties will never reform the human heart, I tell my fellow manual laborers. "So, what to do?", they ask.

Every morning before going to work and every evening when I return home, I sit with my forlorn sister and my defeated mother. I talk to them and listen to their silence. My heart is breaking with them and I hear the echoes of their torment. I breathe deeply. My rage and frustration must be controlled. I must first reform myself. Only then can I help to reform others.