Labyrinth of life under Grogol overpass

Labyrinth of life under Grogol overpass

By Mehru Jaffer

JAKARTA (JP): Masija, 23, is pregnant again. Already a mother
of four-year-old Faan, the young woman with an aging face and a
terrible odor has no home, no job and no dreams. Unless, of
course, sleeping under the Grogol overpass can be called home,
begging a job and starving, sick children her only dream.

Masija was 14 years old when she left her village in Jepara,
Central Java, to join her mother, Sumarti, 40, in Jakarta.
Sumarti runs a food stall under the same bridge. Apart from
Masija she has small children of her own, the youngest one being
as old as Faan, her grandson who was born with a terrible squint
and looks half his age.

The food stall brings in about Rp 150,000 per day, an amount
which is used to restock the stall and to feed about 10 people
from the family. In between attending to customers at the stall,
the men, women and children of the family also cross the road to
the Grogol Bus Terminal to supplement their income by begging.

Masija is aware that many women her own age elsewhere in the
capital spend their time working in often glamorous jobs, living
in nice homes and traveling. Since there is no harm in dreaming,
she sometimes wishes for a life like that. Yet she knows what her
problem is and why she is destined to live the way she does.
It is not education. It is not unemployment.

"It is all about money. If I had money I could use it to have
an operation for Faan, to stop myself from begging and to allow
my mother to take a rest from having to struggle from morning to
night to feed us," said Masija.

"The village has everything except money and here we have
money but nothing else," she added, an ironic smile crossing her
face. If and when she has enough money, she would like to open a
food stall in Jepara. Despite the occasional raids by the
authorities, including several last week, Masija and the others
will continue to call the overpass home because there is no other
option.

Below numerous bridges around Jakarta there exists a world
which is not visible from the cars speeding overhead. It is
amazing to see an entire replica of human existence as it is
lived in the more upmarket areas of Jakarta.

Here homes are divided into rooms as well, although the
partition is made from discarded cardboard boxes instead of
cement and paint. There is no need for a roof here because the
overpass provides the highest ceiling possible, comparable only
to the ceilings at the ancient palaces.

The bedroom area may not have spring mattresses, but there are
enough rags to wrap around when it rains or blows too cold. An
open pipe serves as a bathroom where none is disturbed; each one
guards the other while residents answer the call of nature or
clean themselves in the dark of the night. There are people
eating, crying, singing, giving birth, falling in love and
fighting, too. They are the same as other Jakarta residents but
the difference is that life under the flyovers seems to stink in
more ways than one.

There are children whose skin has lost its glow even before
they started to walk due to malnutrition, pollution and the
constant consumption of contaminated water. The people giggle and
crack crude jokes at each other not due to contentment or
happiness, but to hide the embarrassment of their very existence.
They eat not for pleasure but only because they would starve if
they refused the food cooked with the stagnant waters of the
nearby canal or river.

For 30 years Suhartini, 46, has run a food stall on the campus
of Trisakti University opposite the overpass with the sole aim of
feeding herself and her four children.

Sometimes the hope did flicker in her mind that her children
would be inspired by the students of the university to study and
become important people in life. However, none of her children
showed any interest in going to school.

Like all the other teenagers living under the bridge, they
dropped out of school after two or three years. Today they sing
on street corners, direct traffic or beg for money. The thought
of what tomorrow might have in store seldom crosses their minds.

The student demonstrations on the campus two years ago
fascinated Atin, 17, as she watched from her cardboard box
bedroom. She had little clue as to what was going on but she did
get excited, even joining the large crowd of students to shout
slogans she did not understand.

Her friend Rita is so beautiful that she could easily be
mistaken for a film actress. She is only 19 years old but already
a mother of a three year old and a two year old. The father of
her children has abandoned her and recently the street singer
made friends with another man, a bus conductor. It seems only a
matter of time now before Rita will be pregnant again, adding to
the swelling mass of hungry, uneducated and unemployed children
who are looked upon as a public nuisance by the city
administration.

It was time to flee from all the noise, heat and odors into
the Pizza Hut in the Ciputra Mall, which is only a hop and a skip
away from the settlement of hundreds of people living under the
overpass. In this setting it was easier to ponder the grave
problem of the country's lost generation of 10 million children
between six years to 18 years who are already on the street
begging for survival.

When scrubbing one's hands thoroughly in an air-conditioned
toilet of the shopping mall, the sweet smell of the soap soon
took over after the putrid odors outside. Still, the disturbing
question that can nothing be done about the Masijas, Atins and
the Ritas of Jakarta refused to be washed away.