Please, Call Me Pheng Hwa

Please, Call Me Pheng Hwa

By Veven Sp Wardhana

Time has slowly turned me into a chameleon. Sometimes I call
myself Pheng Hwa, while at other times I go by Effendy Wardhana,
the name printed on my ID card. My folks said every citizen
should respect the name printed on their ID card, because it is
the only name acknowledged by the state.

My family lives in a small town and there are only a few other
Indonesians of Chinese origin there. At home I was called Pheng
Hwa or Ping An. Anyway, that is not important because everywhere
else, such as police stations or government offices, I had to
introduce myself as Effendy Wardhana.

As time went by, this name not only became familiar to the
civil servants and police officers I sometimes dealt with, but
also to my high school friends and people I knew in Yogyakarta,
where I went to university, and in Jakarta where I also have many
friends. Eventually, I felt irritated if someone called me Pheng
Hwa, or worse Singkek, which means an indigenous Chinese man and
is a term people here use as a form of disparagement.

Later on, when I became too busy with my studies and then my
work to keep in touch with my family, I began to lose my pride as
an Indonesian of Chinese origin. But it is different with my
wife, who comes from Manado, the provincial capital of North
Sulawesi. Most people from there look Chinese and are often
mistaken as such.

One day my wife urged me quit my job in Jakarta and look for a
scholarship to study broadcasting in Paris. She had been there
once before, after she completed her studies.

In Paris, one day, while having lunch in an Indonesian
restaurant with my wife, I was approached by an elderly
Indonesian man.

"Hello, Ping An, how long have you been here?" he asked. The
meeting itself was not a surprise, but after that encounter all
my Paris friends called me by that name.

Gus, the elderly gentleman, told me that in France a person
with my features was more respected than other Asians. He was
right. On the Metro, I was always being asked by French people
where I came from. Most of them asked the same question: "Vous
etes Vietnamien?" 1)

I told Gus over the telephone the French seemed to like
Vietnamese more than other expatriates. They also knew more about
Asians than other Europeans, many of whom tended to mistake any
Southeast Asian for a Filipino. I wonder how, in this age of
globalization, these people can think Bali is far from Indonesia.

Gus said there was still a lot I had to learn about the
French.

"Yes," I told Gus. "When I was shopping at Tang Frere, I found
every Chinese could speak French fluently."

One day I asked some of them: "Ni shi zhong Huoren, wei shen
me bu hui shuo Huayu?" 2) Nobody answered, they just shrugged
their shoulders and stared at me.

"Mais vous etes Chinoise, n'est pas? Pourqoi vous ne parlez-
pas Chinois?" 3) I asked.

"Eh, donc," 4) they said.

"Eh, donc? Na shi wei shen me ne?" 5) I retorted.

They asked me where I came from and what kind of birth
certificate I possessed.

I was astonished by the question, but my wife said the Chinese
living in Chinatown hid the fact that the size of their community
was decreasing through death. The secrecy was meant to manipulate
the residence certificates of the dead, to be used by new
migrants from China.

Although Pheng Hwa is my real name, I recently introduced
myself as Effendi to a relative of my wife. When the relative
hosted a party for the birth of his first son, a lot of neighbors
were invited. They included French, Algerians, Italians and
Moroccans.

"Effendi, are you a Muslim? Do you come from Malaya?" an
Italian and a French man asked me almost simultaneously.

"I'm from Indonesia. Malaya, since its independence, has
become Malaysia, my country's immediate neighbor."

An Algerian started talking about the Iranian revolution,
while a Moroccan presented me with a bottle of pickles he had
just made.

In France I feel at peace with my dual identity, Pheng Hwa and
Effendi Wardhana. I feel born again. It was with this feeling
that I eventually went home. My wife had gone home six months
earlier.

I arrived at Soekarno-Hatta airport in Jakarta early in the
morning. As I approached the immigration counter, I felt awkward.
The immigration officer stared hostilely into my eyes.

As I waited for my luggage, I tried to call home using a
public phone but nobody answered. Even after several tries.

Outside, I looked around hoping to see my wife or some of my
family waiting to welcome me, but no one was there. I tried to
call home again but to no avail. And there was not a single taxi
anywhere. I saw many people sleeping on the ground, wherever
there was empty space. They seemed to have been there for hours.

I asked some of the people around me if they were able to get
through to their families. They had the same experience as me.
"The lines were busy."

Confused, I asked an airport worker what year it was. He
seemed surprised by the question. Maybe he thought I was
suffering from jet lag.

"It is May 15, sir," he said.

"But what year?"

I asked the same question of a man standing nearby. Instead of
answering my question, the man frowned. Maybe he guessed
why I asked such a strange question. ***

Glossary:

1. French, meaning, "Are you Vietnamese?"

2. Chinese for "Aren't you from China? Why don't you speak
Chinese?

3. "But you are Chinese, aren't you. So why don't you speak
Chinese?"

4. Chinese for "So, what?"

5. "I don't know, why?"

-- Translated by TIS

(Derabat, selected Kompas short stories, l999)